angry jerk with computer

2009-12-31T12:20:00.000-08:00

A throttling...

2008-12-29T14:41:00.000-08:00

The first time I read Blood Meridian I got lost. I think a better word actually is overwhelmed. I hadn't read prose like that since my last foray through Middle Earth, only this time instead of hooming Ents and galloping wizards it was scalped natives with sun dried bones and slaughtered babies hanging from trees by their ankles. I loved the book but it caught me off guard and therefore was a bit tough to chew on, and that comes from a dude who digests graphic violence like kettle corn. Salty and sweet? "Woot" I say.

When it was first recommended to me my buddy said "This is the most violent book that has ever been written." I never categorized him as one to fib, but he could spin quite a yarn. Liar: no. Exaggerator: yes. Regardless of the level and potency of said violence, it had been writ to the menu. I brought my bib. But while I was fully equipped to put my brain through the mental meat grinder, what I wasn't expecting was the beautiful and eloquent delivery of such a horrifying story. Imagine Mary Poppins narrating The Road Warrior.

The second time I read Blood Meridian I was ready for it, and loved it even more. Long story short it's one of the best books I've read as an adult and despite the lack of any morality, hero, or other general goodness whatsoever I still connected to it on a level one can only describe as special. I still think about it daily. It's my new water mark, my Michael Jordan, My Sgt Pepper. Every book I read for the rest of my life will be compared to this one until it is dethroned and sent to the catacombs of lesser diction, not an event I see happening any time soon.

However, this post is not about "books" or "reading" or "smartness", it is about movies, because according to rumors painted true there is a Blood Meridian film in production. I have to come right out and say that it is completely impossible to accurately portray this story. It will change, probably very dramatically, in being imported to the film medium. As stated above there is no protagonist, there is no morality, there is no uplifting ending, there are no lessons learned or wrongs righted, or any other Hollywood film staple. There is only pain. The story follows a group of scalp hunters in the early years of America's development who ride through 'the west' in a literal path of destruction, slaughtering and destroying everything they come across. They murder, kill, rape, steal, kill, violate, murder, fornicate, rape, pilfer, pillage, destroy, kill, and massacre every-fucking-thing in their path without so much as a single "oops" or "sorry about that." You are disgusted with the characters for the entirety of the story, yet somehow you keep reading like the words are a trail of cookie crumbs. The only somewhat neutral character is Judge Holden, who is just as much an instrument of chaos as he is a balancing mechanism for the abandon with which the gang behaves. I'll spare you all the "Cliff's Notes", but the point I'm trying to make is clear: Using the Hollywood sheen on this story will not do it justice, and there is little to no room for compromise.

From what I hear a lot of people said the same thing about No Country For Old Men, and clearly the Cohens pulled that off like it was effing Fargo 2. But NCFOM was a much different story with a plot one could sympathize with and characters that could be seen in a positive light. Who wouldn't try to run with all that drug money? All of us can connect to that excited fantasy of happening across a shit fuck ton of money that has no rightful owner, making one's early retirement a mere address change away.

Ridley Scott was originally slated as the director for this, to which I heartily shrug. Yeah, Alien was good. So was Blade Runner, but after seeing American Gangster I pretty much wrote Scott off my "I care about this" list. Unless he was going to dress up Ruby Dee in cowboy boots and a neclace of dried Indain ears then he could get bent. But in a surprising display of wisdom, especially considering the success of McCarthy's material with No Country and the soon to arrive The Road, he apparently hates money and so backed out of the project. He was quoted saying the following just before officially withdrawing as director:

"It's written. I think it's a really tricky one, and maybe it's something that should be left as a novel. If you're going to do Blood Meridian you've got to go the whole nine yards into the blood bath, and there's no answer to the blood bath, that's part of the story, just the way it is and the way it was."

Cheers Mr. Scott. You are close to a pardon for American Gangster, although judging by the synopsis of Nottingham I will most likely be choking on these words this time next year.

So now we have Todd Field slated to direct the film. Who is Todd Field? You don't know, right? I don't know either. Todd fucking Field is a no name, bit actor, with about as much directing experience as I have from an afternoon with a digital camera, my cat, and a laptop. Todd Field has to be stoked. Todd Field is about to make my ever lengthening shit list with a fucking vengance... and a couple million dollars... for ruining art... real art... not a "painting of blue" or "poem about sex" "art"... but fucking art!

heh... butt fucking art.

So without further hatred slinging, I will meander to the point of this post: My picks for Blood Meridian cast and crew. Based on my own outlandishly narrow minded and jaded opinions of films and their participants, here is what I would consider the best bet to getting as close as possible to an honest portrayal of McCarthy's hell ride through the desert.

PRODUCER - Mel fucking Gibson
The movie is going to need people at the helm who aren't worried about showing too much violence or grossing out the audience. Few directors/producers have showed such a hearty commitment, nay, dedication to painting the screen red with drippy gibs than Mel Gibson. I still stand behind Passion of the Christ as an awesome movie, and I hate Jesus! That is the level this movie needs to be at in the violence department. No apologies and no consideration for the weak of stomach. A few authors consider McCarthy insane, and we all know Mel Gibson is bat shit, so this will totally work.

DIRECTOR - Werner Herzog
Gibson isn't allowed to direct because while he enjoys a good cerebral fountain of gore with his $9 ticket, he has too much bravado and is far too showy with his movie presentations. The story needs a director who can keep the film grounded, grim, and keep the Hollywood glitter to a non-existant minimum. Herzog is the man for the job, the key bullet point on his resume' being Aguirre: The Wrath of God. A pacing and delivery similar to that film would be perfect for Blood Meridian.

JUDGE HOLDEN - Gene Hackman
When I first pondered who might play the crucial role of The Judge, Gene Hackman briefly fluttered into my mind and I rejected it with flame and shield. The more I think about him though, the more I think he'd actually make the role seem real and not so super natural. In the book, The Judge almost comes off as omniscient or super human, and having Hackman take the role I really think he could convey that sense of power with the body and voice of a mortal. Not only that but he's a practical actor, he isn't going to over act the part or try and make it into something it isn't. He can take a character as exaggerated and large as The Judge, and make him exist as a real person within the period the story takes place. Plus it'd be awesome to see him dressed up like a hairless, naked albino.

THE KID - That skinny guy from 3:10 to Yuma
This role needs someone with a "look", rather than actual acting skills. The Kid has almost zero dialogue but is a central part to the story. Ben Foster has the right image for this part, and he's actually not that bad an actor either.

JOHN GLANTON - Kurt Russel
Glanton needs to be played by someone who can be an alcoholic hurricane, a drunk with zero conscience who completely allows his rage to drive him. I almost wanted to say Mickey Rourke but his face is out of control. I almost stopped at Michael Madsen, but he's a bit too "cool" for the part. Kurt Russel! And not Tombstone Kurt Russel, but R.J. MacCready, Stuntman Mike, fucking Snake Plisskin Kurt Russel.

TOADVINE - Sam Rockwell
Toadvine is a fucking scarred maniac. I can't remember any specific roles but for some reason Sam Rockwell stands out as being completely insane in a lot of movies (and no, I'm not thinking of Green Mile, asshole). I think he'd be awesome with no teeth, no ears, covered in mud and draped in scalps.

EX PRIEST TOBIN - Phillip Seymour Hoffman
Yeah yeah, I know everyone has a boner for the 'Hoff these days, but he pretty much already played this role in Cold Mountain.

THE IDIOT - Jack Black
I fucking hate Jack Black. Nothing would make me happier than to see him naked in a cage covered in his own shit... Goddammit, look at that asshole.

my musical hero...

2008-12-15T16:43:00.000-08:00

...looks like this.

Burt & Ernie get BRUTAL

2008-12-05T10:49:00.001-08:00

You mean... it's OK to be an asshole?

2008-11-12T21:20:00.000-08:00

I've been completely ob-fucking-sessed with Fallout 3 the last week. I have to quickly admit that this is my first experience with the sandbox/RPG like Oblivion and shit, so pardon the n00bile over enthusiasm, but the game is a fucking gem and I can't recommend it enough.

The biggest compliment I can pay to the game is the sheer freedom it allows one to be a complete and utter asshole to the virtual world as you progress through the game. I started the game with the goal of being an evil motherfucker, because I figure if they'll allow it, why not push the envelope and see how far you can go? Well, you can go far. Far enough that I actually occasionally feel real world guilt at some of the actions I am responsible for in fake video game land, and this is the kind of experience that truly makes games art: When they can reach out of the screen and really cause one to emote.

In the last week there have been a number of poignantly, excessively awesome experiences that need to be dished right goddamn now. Here are a few.

ahem... spoilers n' shit...

My first foray into the town of Megaton was a chaotic stroll along the salty brine of the devil's colon. Long story short, you show up to town, the sheriff tries to intimidate you into following their rules, you meet a guy who wants to pay you to arm the benign nuclear bomb in the middle of town, and are then left to explore. I got about as far as the place where you sleep with the hooker when I decided I needed to start flexing my evil bone and see what kind of shit you could get away with. I found myself alone with a friendly AI in a motorcycle helmet in a secluded room of the commons. Entering the crouch, slash, sneak position, I attempted a feeble level 2 pickpocket and of course failed. The "man" freaked out and began to run away, at which point I beat him to death with a baseball bat and looted the items I had sought to procure in the first place. Much to my shagrin, the local security was on my ass and chased me out of town. With bullets. So I followed through on the "blow up the town quest" and about 30 minutes later I was safely on the balcony of Ten Penny Tower watching the town that had dealt me so sourly go up in a mushroom cloud. Catch me pickpocketing? I kill you dead. Chase me out of town? I vaporize all you fuckers!

Later on, I'm doing this weird side quest that involves mutated fire ants that spit flame thrower style flames at you and are a huge pain in the ass. So there's a doctor who has genetically altered these ants and accidentally turned them into giant, flame spitting bitches that need to be effing annihilated. The doctor implores you to only kill the soldiers and let the queen live so he can continue his research, promising you riches AND a shot that will boost one of your stats (that's a big deal if you haven't played RPGs before). So I agree, complete the quest to the T and return to the good doctor with his nasty soldier ants bubbling piles of guts and the bloated queen still rummaging around her ant hole. The doctor thanks me, rewards me, gives me my stat boost, and then goes on his way to continue his research. Right as he turns around BOOM I blow his head off with a pistol, loot the corpse, and head back into the ant cave to kill the queen and suck up the experience points like nectar, reaping all the benefits of completing the "good quest", but still getting the material rewards of stealing his belongings and raking up the ant queen experience.

All I can say is: Thank you, Bethesda. Thank you for not only allowing us to explore the darker side of sand box gaming, but actually facilitating the fun with a unique experience that only dick-ish players are privvy to. For me this is an easy "Game of the Year".

Bach Core

2008-07-25T13:43:00.000-07:00

I was on the fence about buying Children of Bodom tickets until my coworker sent me this...

Damn.

Chainsaw Maid

2008-07-11T10:58:00.000-07:00

Chainsaw Maid! My vote for best zombie clay animation short film, as it's the only one I've ever seen.

(links to eBaums world. might be NSFW depending on your job.)

Tour Diary: Biafra 5-0 in San Francisco

2008-06-22T22:55:00.000-07:00

Playing in a band, one that travels anyways, ends up putting one in all kinds of bizzarro situations. Planned or unplanned. I'm not particularly motivated to open this particular vellum of the Akimbo encyclopedia series, but let me just conclude my preface by saying that having the flexibility to travel and experience music on the road allows one to indulge in all kinds of adventures.

Enter Jello Biafra's 50th birthday party, loftily dubbed the "Biafra 5-0". Being a band on Alternative Tentacles, I wasn't overly surprised or shocked that we were asked to open one of the two shows in San Francisco this June. We were at our last show of the west coast tour in August 2007 to support Navigating the Bronze, in Oakland with our buddies Walken and Triclops!, trying to make the best out of a dismal turn out and possibly the most belligerent, asshole, straight up naive d-bag club owners we have ever come across. My anger that night for this awful show that would actually leave us with an all night hell drive back to seattle churned like a tsunami of magma, but our political angst spitting benefactor, Mr. Biafra himself, ended up coming to the show to watch us wiggle around to the loud noises and offer his to expected criticisms. It was during this time that he mentioned his 50th birthday and extended the invite, a meager nugget of treasure amongst a night plagued with rancor and bullshit.

The nature of the event itself is what makes it an adventure to me. Sure, we've toured about as hard as a band can with whatever assets and resources we can possibly assume are out there in the void and then grasp with desperate, spiny tendrils. Going out on the road doesn't quite hold the excitement and potency it once provided in years past. Eight years of playing the same fucking shit show in every town across the nation will do that to you, me, and anyone else that qualifies as sentient. The gems are out there though, waiting to be sifted from rubble. However, the Biafra 5-0 was a no brainer. Of course we'll play that show. We're honored to have even been asked and wouldn't dream of not being there, just to effing be there. I grew up on a healthy diet of Dead Kennedys, Nomeansno, and the rest of the Alternative Tentacles salad. This is the modern incarnation of one of the most important periods in my own personal musical journey, and I get to share the stage with it, be a part of it, help it evolve. We marked the date, cleared the calendars, and had Michelle graciously book a few buffer shows to get us there and back. It's a reincarnation of our weekend warrior tours of yore, when we'd take a 3 or 4 day weekend and drive down to San Francisco to play a show, with no other reason than just to play in San Francsico. Because it is awesome.

Day one has us rolling out in the all too familiar Akimbo fashion: unprepared and awash with procrastination. I leave the air conditioned luxury of my video game job and meet the guys in our stuffy, ungodly hot, filth pit of a practice space for a last minute refresher on some old tunes we're revitalizing for the three shows. On the walk there I'm wrapping up some loose ends with work on the cell phone and almost get ran the fuck over by a meaty douche bag who didn't see me crossing the street as he took an aggressive left onto Pike. I look at him with the stoicism of a Vulcan as he slams his brakes and reflexively throws his hands off of his steering wheel in sheer surprise. "Nice sunglasses, asshole" I think to myself as I continue my phone call without missing a beat. As I continue walking, once again amidst the safe bosom of the sidewalk, the guy yells at me to "Watch where the fuck you're going!" I see red. It was clear that he assumed that because I was on the phone I had no idea what was going on around me and was just haphazardly walking through intersections hoping for an accident settlement. Little does this man realize that I always check the street before I cross. I have to. It's a behavior that is so deeply ingrained into my psyche that not checking left, then right, would be like leaving the house with a bra tied to my head. When I looked the street was clear, and that guy was waiting to turn left towards the crosswalk that I was about to walk through before he gunned it right towards my knees which would have smeared me like mustard. He seemed to gloss over that part. I politely ended my call, close my phone, and hollered "FUCK YOU!" which prompted a slow-drive yelling fight for half a block as we accosted each other about our displayed merits of civilian traffic laws. I haven't even smelled the musty guts of the van yet, and already it is apparent that I'm 'on tour'.

The practice is short and sweaty. We load the van and unanimously agree that we are not to drive a foot without first partaking of a frosty beer in the inviting cool of the Cha Cha basement bar. We do so. Relish. I have a Mannny's, which I love ordering because 4 out of 10 times the bar tender thinks you're asking for a "mayonnaise" and you get that telling glimpse of "Oh shit, this guy is crazy" as they ask you to repeat your order. The next hurdle to clear is picking up our merch from El Corazon where Nat works. Aaron drives home to drop off his car, Nat and I go to El Corazon, get the merch, print the driving directions, choke down another High Life, and then head north to Ballard in 5 o'clock rush hour traffic. For those reading who don't know, driving from downtown to Ballard in Seattle traffic is probably the closest mortals will ever get to experiencing limbo. During the drive, as my delicious double beer buzz is setting in, Nat asks me to drive. I say no. He asks again. I cave. Garbage. After an hour and fifteen minutes of mental pain, we have Aaron and can finally be on our way. As I take the wheel I jokingly ask "Would you guys be pissed if all I listen to on this trip is obnoxious metal?" They chortle, but I think "what if I did!?!?" Three hours of Rhapsody, Cradle of Filth, Children of Bodom, Amon Amarth, Blind Guardian, and Lucca Turrilli later, we were in Portland.

The show is at East End, and we're playing in a basement bar underneath the somewhat fancy bar. Tiny stage, cramped quarters, low ceiling, should be fun. The turnout is surprising for a Monday, and we're playing with the ever savage Black Elk. Their set is unrelenting and inspiring, their new drummer is a human metronome and hits like a cannon, the guitar is earthy and shrill, and I have a new favorite band from Portland. We go on after them and do our best. The new/old songs come out well, and the crowd is whipped and barking for more when we're done. We throw them a bone and play our Nirvana cover of "Breed" which we save exclusively for just the right crowds that are rowdy enough to rally behind that gem.

Post show is lazy and drunk, we feed on surprisingly decent bar food and load out. When we're waiting to leave we are stopped by Aaron's friend Nicole who had procured various slices of fancy cakes for us from her work and dropped them off in our van. One thing that seems to happen on tour is you end up collecting a weird variety of foods as the trip progresses. People offer you things you may or may not want, but considering your situation you end up taking the offerings, because you know, just in case. A few weeks later your van looks and smells like a QFC dumpster and you can't find your fucking ipod because the crushed loaves of bread, cans of soup, empty coffee cups, and jar of peanut butter with a single defiant finger swipe through the top layer are all encroaching on every available inch of space. These cakes, however, were no such burden. They were nice. The good shit. Quality, individually packaged pieces of richness. Thanks Nicole.

My sister Ailsa who has recently relocated to Portland is at the show and we go back to her place for the night. It's the first time we've hung out in her new city together and it's great to see her again. As well pull into the driveway of her house I start rummaging for my nightly things and to my surprise find that my sleeping bag is not in the van. I remember it being in the van. I retrace my steps: I checked my closet where it lives at my house, I checked the practice space (where I found my pillow), I asked Nat if it was in the van and he said "Should be..." It wasn't. I'm not one to rage, not without a little bit of humor at least, but the frustration at losing my sleeping bag manifested in a minor hissy fit tearing through the van, hastily throwing things around in search of my little buddy. I hate being unprepared, and I hate having to ask people for something as brainless as a blanket or sleeping bag when they're putting you up. Luckily we were staying with my sister so it was no problem asking for a blanket, and luckily we had a spare sleep sack in the van, and luckily I was marginally drunk which curbed the man rage before it got absurd. Ten minutes later I was passed out in a bed dreaming of CoD4 and coffee with french vanilla creamer. Nom nom nom...

Our dance with Lady Sleep was merely a flirt. That bitch. The alarm went off at 6 and I managed to wrangle an extra 20 minutes before giving up and rising from my slumber, my exhaustion justified at the knowledge that assholes in the world were also waking up now to work in customer service centers and soulless legal departments. Some young republican shitbag nick-named "Bozz" or some garbage was on his way to a lifeless office rat race while we get to drive to the Bay Area and play loud rock and roll. Fuck yeah. Get up. Van. 10 hours to a 5:00 load in. Go.

Aaron takes his first ever driving shift on tour after wrestling his license from the Washington state courts and gets 'er done into south Oregon. I try to sleep in the shotgun seat which always a losing battle while Nat slumbers on the bench seat like a wee lass. Moldy beer farts happen. It can't be helped. Gas is almost $5 a gallon in California and we blow through our money from last night in two stops. I eat a piece of van-hot, white chocolate strawberry cheesecake and find that when coupled with a hangover it could be considered unwise.An endearing quality about touring with Aaron is that he never gets sick of funny freeway signs. We've been down I-5 together possibly 20 times now and he still laughs every time we're in Northern California and pass "Balls Ferry Road". Cute.

The drive is long and draining. I conquer a few armies in Advance Wars before my DS charge dies, and then finish book one of Dune. We arrive in San Francisco to a flurry of text messages informing our local friends that we're here and have a healthy guest list. The Great American Music Hall is a beautiful venue, I've always wanted to play there and this show will be our first opportunity. The staff was remarkably friendly and helpful, and they had a great meal of turkey with gravy and potatoes ready for the bands. Jon gets Thanksgiving in June, bitches. We eat and relax in the band room saying hi to our good friends Maiko, George, and Jesse from Alternative Tentacles and the dudes in Triclops! as the doors open. Our friends start showing up as well and shortly the downstairs is a triumphant reunion.

First up was the Melvins performing their demo stuff from 1983, with Dale Crover playing bass and their original drummer on drums. It was a great set and totally awesome to see those old punk songs played live. We played next and I felt really good about the set. No heavy screw ups and good energy from the crowd. I couldn't really tell how it sounded in the room as I was stuck right in front of my bass rig but I could hear the drums and the monitor mix was surprisingly clear. I guess thats how the pros do it. We played a quick six songs and got the gear off the crowded stage. People were not shy with their compliments which is always nice, and also answered my questions about how the room sounded. Victory!

Up next was Triclops! (pic below) and I still have to say they are one of my favorite "new" bands around. They play a perfect swirl of progressive rock and classic punk. They're one of those bands where every member is disgustingly talented and plays their instrument with a unique sense of individualism that is entirely its own feel, but as they play the music together as a band that individualism blends into a cohesive sonic experience where each part compliments the other. That and they're all great performers as well. They're a band that inspires me, renews my excitement in music, and I'm happy to know them.
So now that the openers were officially out of the way it was time for Jello to hit the stage and justify his 50th birthday party. I can't think of many 50 year olds who would choose to celebrate their birthday by running up and down a stage, hollering, sweating and shirtless. Come to think of it I can't think of many people who'd want to watch the average 50 year old sweat all over a stage and be hollered at. An odd night indeed. Fortunately for us, Biafra overcame any disadvantage his age might cause and delivered. His show was excellent. His new band with guitarist Ralph from Victim's Family and bass player of Faith No More was surprisingly awesome, a great batch of songs that maintain the drive and sheer impact of simple power punk without sounding overplayed or rehashed. One of those groups that somehow pulls off an original sound while playing a very classic style. I'm really excited for them to record and start touring. Jello with the Melvins was the ruthless locomotive I remember it being, only this time their bass player was Andy from Monorchid and Wrangler Brutes, who sadly did not escape a fan boy freak out from me later that evening despite our knowing each other through mutual friends for a few years now. It's such a rush to see all those Dead Kennedys classics performed with such a phenomenal group. You can't help but fist pump and yell along.Towards the end of the set I was informed that Nat and I were to deliver Jello his Alternative Tentacles birthday cake during the encore. As they finished up "Holiday in Cambodia" we lit the candles and hand delivered the bat logo in cake form to one of punk's most prolific and outspoken founding members. I grabbed the mic out of his hand and led the crowd in a sloppy round of Happy Birthday, and returned back stage in marginal shock. It's been years now that we've been lucky enough to know, play with, and be around artists like Jello, the Melvins, Neurosis, Tad and other such musicians that have helped inspire us as kids learning to play our instruments, but there's a part of me that will always be the giddy excitable teenager when shit like that happens, and I hope that never changes.
Post show we finished the beers, packed up, and headed out to Johnny's (singer of Triclops!) place in Berkeley where we continued the liquid festivities and, as most great parties inevitably conclude, ended the night in tears laughing at each other's various youtube gems.

Next day was a lazy morning, breakfast on Telegraph, a stop by Amoeba to pick up that live Kraftwerk album I've been meaning to purchase for years, short relaxation in the shade, and then back in the van on our way to Eureka. Traffic on the way out of town was maddening, but once we cleared it I stopped and got a milkshake and drove into the evening, the sunset's orange roast coloring the beautiful hills of Northern California a robust shade of awesome.

We pulled up to the venue in Eureka which was a small bar called The Little Red Lion. After some delicious and free pizza, I plopped down and watched cage fighting until it was time to play. I've always found an inherent humor in the sheer homoeroticism readily available in UFC fighting matches. It's like the dudes shadow box each other for a few seconds but immediately give in to their deep desires and before you know it they're on the floor dry humping like curious drama students, half making out and half performing for the invisible cameras. Occasionally they remember they're supposed to be killing each other so one will toss a few lame punches, feigning exhaustion, and then they're back to mashing their groins together spread eagle, whispering "Ahh Fuh Fooh" through split lips and teeth guards.

The show was okay, not our best in Humboldt County but far from our worst. During our last few songs the circuit breaker kept crapping out and after the 4th try we took a hint and ended the set. We went to the promoter's house after the show and after flirting over a few PBRs and a pipe of Eureka's finest, they busted out the Wii and we played Wii Sports into the wee hours of the morning. If I had my way, this would be protocol for every post show party. Very awesome.
I cashed all my driving credit the next day and let Nat and Aaron take care of the return trip, opting to delve further into the wastes of Arrakis and bring numerical destruction to slews of cute little soldiers on my DS. It was a relaxing drive until the last few hours of the home stretch. After a gas stop in Northern Oregon our van's engine started running extremely weird. It was shaking and putting and we were losing power. We pulled over, let it sit, started it up and drove off for another 70 miles before it started acting up again. This time we had no such luck and after long breaks off an exit in Olympia and brainstorming people we could hit up for a ride home, we only just got the thing started again, leaving us jerking along the shoulder at 20 mph with our hazards flashing. We limped to another gas station, poured a few gas additives into the tank, splurged on some supreme and crossed our fingers. It seemed to work, and after a few miles the van was running excellent as usual. We thought we were going to be stranded 60 miles from home after a brutal 1800 miles in three days, but it turns out it was just bad gas. Heh.

Like a goddamn toothpick...

2008-05-25T14:13:00.000-07:00

...that's how easy I snapped. Caved. Crumbled. It was disgusting. Years of rigid defense crafted of iron-tongued arguments and witful snobbery, dashed like the courage of an Aquilonian slave under the might of Cimmerian steel. Here's how it went down.

Since the inception of Everquest I have been an outspoken mud slinger of the MMORPG. I've seen co-workers fall into the dreaded tar pits of warm, monitor screen glow, forever gone and waving the banner of loot and rare drops. I've lost friends at the unrelenting hands of coordinated raids and group quests, eyes crusted the next day after 11 hour sessions acrosss the plains of Azeroth. I've always loved games, and always made time to give them the dedication they deserve in my life, but the time-sink that is the MMORPG has been an intimidating precipice that I have steered clear of since the start.

My big gripe with them, and always a delicious trump card when arguing my point for not playing them, is the monthly fees associated with the game. I always figured if I paid for the system (PC), and paid for the game disc, I should be able to play as much as I fucking want to. Adding a monthly internet service fee on top of the regular internet service I'm already paying for is insulting. That's just too much money to play one game when there are so many others out there, not to mention other humans to interact with, beers to drink, kitties to pet, and so on. I look at it with the diamond cut logic of the "nine to fiver" condescendingly watching the crack addict dig through the gutters for apple cores from the comfort of my SUV. From this lofty vantage point, the choice to try crack-cocaine and see what all the fuss is about is clearly unwise. But once you're in the shit, sudddenly the gutter isn't that big of a deal when there's delectable crack spoils to be had. Make sense?

The other prime motivational means of avoidance has been the fact that I am well aware of my own weakness and susceptability to the gravitational force of the RPG. I know with grim certainty that if I were to indulge in the MMORPG, my fall from grace would be swift, violent, and decisive, leaving me a 300 pound, unwashed, patchy-bearded poster child for unhealth. I loved the Warcraft games, and I consider it a monumental personal feat of will power that I never so much as asked a friend to try a game of WoW on their account. I knew the consequences would be dire, and rather than flirt with the succubus I shut my eyes and ran the other way.

And then I heard about Age of Conan. The visceral and immensely detailed MMORPG based on the world Robert E. Howard crafted over decades of masterful authorship, seemingly just for guys like me who could use a little more blood and beheading with our Tolkien, and a little less poetry and song with our marauding warriors. I avoided the previews and screen shots in the following months like a recently recovered alcoholic avoids bars and nightlife. I ignored the guild planning and class plotting "water cooler talk" taking place during breaks at work, hoping I could possibly enjoy the fruits vicariously as a fly on the wall from the back row.
And then the fateful day arrived... I arrive to work and as I pass my co-workers' office I happen to look in and see a big red box with a shimmering golden lion head on the front, AGE OF CONAN: Hyborian Adventures proudly declaring the contents nestled within the special edition limited release. I had to peek. They were abuzz. The install was already under way. I drooled over the packaging, the map of Hyboria included, the art work. We talked, I chided, they rallied, trying to get me on board their slave vessel. I balked, left, and fought back the tears. Pondered, doubted, wrestled with years of logic I had defended like a goddamn citadel, and then made the last mistake before my epic tumble into the forrays of MMORPG... I returned to their office and watched character creation.

Now for normal RPG nerds the character creation in AOC is already top notch. The level of customization available to the player is a fucking bouquet of scars, wrinkles, skin tones, markings, hair cuts, and facial features. I was already 60% sold, but when I saw the available geographical selection where one could opt between Cimmerian, Aquilonian, or Stygian, and that selection would then offer an entirely new original pallet of selections with which to customize your character's look (based on the region they're from!) I swooned. The developers had done their research, and they knew that if I had an unnatural obsession with how inhumanly bad ass the sect of Set followers were, and that if I so desired I could create my own follower of Set with the unique features and cultural genetic traits of generations of Stygian blood, I could do so. With relish. It was a glimpse into an interactive experience within one of my all time favorite fantasy worlds. The damage was done, and I caved like a diabetic in Baskin Robins. Twenty minutes later I had procurred the disc, signed up with Funcom, and committed to 3 months service... just to try it out.
I think my one saving grace that will keep me free of the perils that come with embracing the pure amount of raw time I could possibly sacrifice in the name of Hyborian domination is the fact that I can only play this game at work. My home computer is a Mac lap top and I'd like to think that if I tried to install the 40 GB game on the poor little guy, the screen would manifest into a giant boxing glove that would continuously punch me in the face until I cancelled the install. Buying a PC at home for this game is completely out of the question. Not only do I not want a big old PC in my tiny apartment, even if I got to that level of desperation I already know how quickly that conversation would be snuffed by Maria. The task before me now is balancing my work time with Conan, and making sure that "playing a little during lunch" doesn't snowball into a legitimate issue that will involve HR.

So there it is. It was nice knowing you all, and now you know why I no longer exist. If you need me for anything urgent, please contact the Stygian Tempest of Set traipsing across the Hyborian plains in search of Cimmerian allies and nubile blood with which to wet his cudgel... at least for the next 3 months...

Overdue update

2008-04-06T02:05:00.000-07:00

It's been a good few months since I updated. Too much shit has befallen to write in the interest of accuracy, so in the interest of efficiency I'll gloss over some of the jibba jabba I wanted to write about but didn't.

After Microsoft dangled a carrot in front of my face, saying I could go back to work at Bungie as soon as my 100 day mandatory vacation was up, I was suddenly getting some "we're not sure" and "we'll have to see" and "go fuck yourself" type answers on a return date. Garbage. Not like they were going to hire me full time anyways, but promising a place after the break and then peeing in your mouth whenever you try to ask about details on said place... Not so shocking new levels of mouth peeing from Microshaft. For those who don't know, MS only allows contractors to work for them for 9-12 months before you're forced to take a 100 day break. It's so they don't have to burden you with things like benefits, a salary, and an overall sense of being appreciated by your employer.

I got a new job. A better job. A grown up job. By some fluke of fate I landed a Test Lead position at the upstart WB Games. WB stands for Warner Brothers, as in, fucking Warner Brothers. I'm a big kid now, with big kid pants at the big kid table. The job is great, so far I've attained three completely free, completely unwatchable DVDs of garbage movies I had no intention of watching as "perks", and am working on Project Origin, the sequel to F.E.A.R. The game is looking great, and is a sweet first project to sink my bitter teeth into at the new company. Here's the latest trailer.

Gary Gygax passed. QQ.

I went to Jon's (my DM) birthday party, where we rolled up characters and played a quick adventure in true, 12 year old, social reject, too old for ninja turtles, too young for beer, birthday party fashion. He invited Todd Gamble, his son's art teacher who also happens to be the guy who built all the professional terrain for D&D miniature advertisements, and also contributed a lot of art to the various TSR worlds. It was pretty cool meeting him. He was very humble, very excited that he had contributed to the D&D legacy, and ironically has never played the game. He sat with us and sketched out scenes as they were happening (fucking incredible!), and at one point even leaned over to the Forgotten Realms map we were using and said "This looks familiar... I think I drew this."

My Xbox broke. The video output shat as I was about to embark on a rampant evening of Halo 3 n00binating, leaving me at the mercy of the peanut gallery in my headset. It's been a long time in "the shop". It comes back on Monday. We will embrace, make love, and then resume our frolicking across the fields of Valhalla.

Maria and I went an saw Shutter. My one word review: Shitter.

I started playing Call of Cthulhu table top RPG with a group of friends. It's a pretty jarring change from the "kill orc/loot orc/level up" formula I've always known with AD&D. The game is much more mental, you have a lot more thinking to do, and I've found that there are a lot of points in the adventure where we all get silent, I go "uuuuuuuh" and then someone says "I don't know what to do." There's no leveling up, your awareness of Cthulhu lore is directly tied to your sanity, and there's no real objective other than "find Cthulhu and try not to blow your brains out".

Lastly, I'm getting a sweet tattoo right now featuring Neptune rising from the depths in order to smite some fools. Check it:

2008-03-02T15:56:00.000-08:00

Pac Man Cake

2008-02-03T12:17:00.001-08:00

My little sister, Ailsa, just sent me this photo of a birthday cake she made for some dude named Josh. I don't know this Josh character, but he scored a pretty fierce cake. I hope he appreciates how highly this rates on the awesometer.

AD&D Terrain

2008-01-30T15:01:00.000-08:00

Ever since age 12 I've been a huge fan of and have played pen and paper role playing games. About a year or so ago my childhood friend, cohort of many teenage adventures, and easily the best DM I've ever played with got in touch and we started playing AD&D 2nd Edition in Forgotten Realms again for the first time in years.

I play an elf thief who has reached 7th level so far and has narrowly escaped death in just about every gaming session we've had. He's almost been annihilated by tribal Uthgart Barbarians, a 100' tall demon spider known as Bebelith (twice), hordes of Demon-Elf half breed warriors, a shifty backstabbing asshole thief named Tiger Bloodshanks, a Carrion Crawler (totally embarrasing), a Gnoll fighter/mage and his giant serpent familiar, and a necromancer that summoned more Wights than would ever be considered reasonable.

Aside from being a great DM, Jon (pictured below) is also an amazing terrain builder. Here are some pictures from some of our recent games.

New(ish) music...

2008-01-30T14:45:00.000-08:00

I've been listening to these newish bands a lot lately. All very very good. I won't bother with elborate self serving descriptions, but if you're curious here are some links. Check it out if you want.

TRICLOPS! (San Francisco/Oakland)
New label mates of ours and ex members of Fleshies, Victim's Family, Bottles & Skulls, Lower Forty Eight and a bunch of other bands.
Recommended track: Salton

OM (Oakland)
Ex members of Sleep, gloriously loud live.
Recommended track: At Giza (this is the ending of their 20 minute epic from the first record)

FUTURE OF THE LEFT (Cardiff, UK)
Ex members of Maclusky.
Recommended track: Small Bones Small Bodies

RAMBO!

2008-01-30T13:04:00.000-08:00

"Fuck you, okay?"

...is the first line of Stallone's latest "remember how awesome I used to be" revisiting of his classic characters. Sadly, I doubt we will see his lumpish, botched face adorn any Oscar nominations, but as soon as the academy allocates an award for "Best Explosion of a Human Body" or "Highest Body Count in a Motion Picture" then Rambo may get the respect it deserves. The acting and story hold about as much water as you can cram into a thimble, as expected, but the film's true triumph is a return to the action movie formula of yore, conjuring classics like Commando, Cyborg, and the Death Wish series. The iconic villain is so heinous it's almost beyond human capacity, smirking behind a cigar and aviator shades from the passenger seat of a jeep as his cronies mow down hundreds of innocent Burmese villagers with automatic weapons. No real plot or reason is provided for this, other than Stallone's token slur saying "It's a war zone up there." and it basically gives us the black and white distinction required for the mindless slaughter to come. These are the bad guys, and they are so bad you will be happy when Rambo kills them. Happy is an understatement. Rejoice. Make merry. Here are just a few of the selling points in convenient, organized, anal retentive bullet points.

Rambo ends every argument with "Go home."
Stupid christian missionaries run into Burma, get pwned hard, and must rely on angry Rambo to save them by killing everyone, thus rendering "God's work" irrelevant.
Rambo forges his own choppin' sword.
Numerous deaths by bow and arrow, including a zinger where the arrow enters through a dude's chin and comes out his eye socket.
Fastidious attention paid to the graphic violence that occurs when the human body is exploded by mortar and/or trip mine.
Sylvester Stallone's lumpy face is laughable proof that plastic surgery has come a long way since he turned 40. He looks like he pissed off a bunch of bees.
Rambo sets off an atomic explosion in the woods using a rigged claymore and a dirty rag.
Rambo says "Fuck the world."
Awesome night vision scope scenes of dudes getting shot with a massive sniper rifle, causing heads to explode and bodies to go flying.
Dude gets dangled over hungry pigs who eat his feet.
Rambo spends a literal 20 minutes on a machine gun turret killing people. He's up there so long they even shoot an elaborate relaoding sequence of him changing the ammo drum so that he can continue raging.
The following chart (Please note the last line; Zero sex scenes in any Rambo film!):

Please take care to catch Rambo if you're a fan of the action classics, it does not disappoint. I recommend pre-gaming with friends and showing up loaded.

Honorable mentions also go out to Cloverfield and There Will Be Blood.
Cloverfield was totally killer, a disaster movie told from the hand held video camera perspective of people trudging through a giant monster attacking Manhattan. The minute the action starts it doesn't let up until the end, the monster is not hokey at all, acting is well done, overall a pretty brilliant take on a monster movie. If you can stand the shakey cam on the big screen then check it out.
There Will Be Blood was all the oscar fodder you'd imagine it would be. Daniel Day-Lewis is a shoe in for best actor this year, he's a treat to watch. Without any spoilers, or exaggeration for that matter, this film had the best ending I think I've ever seen.

An open letter to the East Coast

2008-01-08T17:26:00.001-08:00

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE EAST COAST:
Get off Xbox live. Do not come home from work. Do not turn on your Xbox. Do not log on to live. You can do anything you want, as long as it is not done within the realm of Xbox Live, which I will now dub "The West Coast Was Here First. Fuck Off." Just leave it. I know it's microsoft, and they should be able to handle the traffic, and they should have thought about it before the holidays, and it shouldn't cause us to sit in lobbies for MINUTES AND MINUTES, but that's not the case. Leave me alone. I was here first. You have to wait, not me. Daddy needs a zoom scope for his G3 assault rifle.

ALIEN VS. PREDATOR (vs.) I AM LEGEND

2007-12-31T11:46:00.000-08:00

ALIEN VS. PREDATOR: REQUIEM
I thankfully missed the first one when it balled theatres, and when I eventually did get around to seeing the thing it was like being whipped raw with a Nintendo controller; something you love most dearly being used to cause severe pain against your person. I was at work a few months ago when someone barked out: "Holy shit, have you guys seen the preview for the new Alien Versus Predator?" to which he was harrangued with a hurricane chorus of boos and fuck thats. He pressed, and we eventually caved and summoned Youtube and to the entire test team's mutual surprise it looked pretty good. It was basically 2 minutes of people dying, and it seemed that they finally figured out that the humanity's struggle in the midst of the opposing alien forces was not interesting in the least, and that humans should pretty much just get murdered for 90 minutes. Make the fans happy. Well, they didn't quite get there, but it was a hell of a lot closer than the first movie...

I AM LEGEND
When I heard that Richard Matheson's short story was being chopped, blended, and vomited into a movie spiced with a big budget, my immediate reaction was absolute euphoria. I'll save the details for later, but simply put I Am Legend is hands down the best vampire story ever committed to paper. It doesn't have the legacy of the uber vampire champions like Nosferatu and Dracula, but at face value it is brutal and chilling, and the concept it presents at the story's conclusion is completely original to the genre. Fucking read it, you will hail me with praise. When I found out that none other than the Fresh Prince, Will Smith, would be cast as Robert Neville, my skepticism swelled but I held fast and waited patiently beneath the information spout, my mouth open, ready to digest whatever bullshit they were about to pour out. "Welcome 'uh' urf, bitch!" True anger seeped freely once I found out it was not going be a vampire movie, but that the enemies were actually going to be rabid, infected, plague victims that turn into angry, screeching, soccer hooligans. I unleashed angry jerk and condemned the movie to Hollywood self stimulation. I actually had every intention of boycotting the movie all together, until Maria said "I feel like watching I am Legend" and I said ".....Ok." So, while they pretty much swatted away potential perfection by ignoring everything that made the book a monumental chapter in vampire lore, the movie was actually pretty painless. Actually, it was awesome...

BODY COUNT:

AVP wastes no time whatsoever in stacking the body count highly in it's favor, farting out a paper thin plot of a crashed Predator ship that happened to be experimenting on aliens and face huggers, creating an alien/predator hybrid thing and then unleashing them on earth to the collective shagrin of mankind. Predator arrives to investigate his comrade's distress call, sees that the aliens are loose and eating whinos in the sewer, and therefore with some mysterious sense of cosmic justice decides that they need to be hunted and killed. We are not privy to why this predator feels the need to throw man-kind a bone, and it's pretty inconsistent for his character considering Predator and Predator 2 were both spent annihilating the human race for sport. I mean, dude is called Predator, not Gracious Savior. But his actual 'saving grace' is that in his efforts to knock out the invading aliens, he invariably destroys any people that get in his way like shooing flies. The aliens maintain quality kill numbers by doing their thing and pretty much eating and/or impregnating every person they come across. Combine this with the fact that Predator is also killing aliens in addition to people, and the body count is enough that just about every scene involves events that include or lead up to the death of something. The amount of on screen deaths definitely earned AVP honors and helped keep the shit fest of actors squashed into the back of your mind while relishing their merciless doom. Extra points for killing little kids, infants, and pregnant women, and they almost went over the top with an "everybody dies" ending, but they allowed a mother and daughter to escape last minute and so lost that particular medal, but more details on that later. (WINNER for blowing up the entire city!)
The actual body count in I Am Legend is hard to ascertain. The drive for the entire story is that the whole world is dead, so technically that's a pretty astronomical kill count, but all it is is a technicality and I prefer to judge a film's body count by the number of tangible deaths on screen. Implied kills will not suffice, they must be presented to the viewer so that we may rejoice. Following this guideline, IAL falls drastically behind AVP in the body count. Neville relies mainly on firearms as defense and most kill scenes involve one or two infected creatures that go down in a flash of quick editing and shakey cam. (Can we be done with shakey cam soon? Please?) The death rate rises towards the end of the film when Robert Neville has a brief road rage scene, offing a good amount of infect-oids with his SUV, and then again bumps when they invade his house and he sets off an arsenal of explosives to keep them out, but the slower pacing and actual suspense never really lets the movie come close to the carnage depicted in AVP.

CREATIVE DEATH SCENES:

Of course AVP is the obvious winner here, being that Predator is essentially an ornary intergalactic James Bond combining forces with the indifferent slaughter stylings of the rare-to-disappoint aliens. There is a wealthy color pallet with which to paint the pain picture in this film, from bionic shoulder lazers and crazy blades of all kinds, to acid blood and thrusting mouth-mouths. Predator excelled in kills, tearing the aliens into fillets and rampaging all over the humans. I gladly place the golden kill crown 'pon his dreds and drink to his continued savagery. Notable kills are the double lazer blast with which he simultaneously vaporizes two heads at once in a fountainous splash of wet brain, and the moment in which (to my delicious surprise) he dispaches the promiscuous blonde love interest (I expected her to survive! Eeeee! Delight!) with his boomerang-blade-ninja star thing, catching her mid run and pegging her into the wall. No slumps themselves, the aliens had a few shining moments to their credit, mostly involving the acid blood. One of the first kills in the movie shows a man lose his arm at the elbow to acid blood, and we are also treated to a visually thirst quenching close up of a douche bag teenager's face getting melted to the skull by spilled alien gore. Predator-Alien hybrid rages in an all new way, reproducing not through goopy eggs and facehuggers but via vomiting eggs down pregnant women's throats so that the baby aliens can eat her infant in the womb and then skuttle out of her swollen belly. Yeah that's right, pregnant women hosting multiple litters of chest bursting babies. AVP makes gore history with a sweeping shot of the maternity ward featuring dead mothers in all the beds, their pregnant stomachs torn open with volley ball sized holes. W00T! Chest bursting is not reserved for the preggers either, and amongst many others a 10 year old kid goes down in the first ten minutes of the movie with a baby alien exiting his stomach before he even grew pubes. AVP gets big points for trodding into the taboo territory of little kids, infants, and pregnant women. All they needed was to off a few down syndrome inflicted individuals and they pretty much would have trampled over the trifecto of most offensive demographics available in America. While AVP was the winner by a long shot here, some of the normal alien kills were a bit "stock", with the slow creep of the drooling alien, lips twitching, just to mouth-mouth into someone's face. I don't think we need anymore of that, or the leg-grab-pull-through-the-floor maneuver, and considering their capabilities there could have been much more creativity in each alien moment. (WINNER for face melt and pregnant chest bursts!)
In the interest of realism, most of IAL's deaths are not very over the top or "creative". Neville primarily uses firearms to drop the infected dogs and/or people, and since most deaths take place during frantic action sequences they are quick shots of the enemies going down while Neville is running or driving or yelling or something. During the road rage scene there are a few good shots of infected dudes getting slammed and tossed by the car, and a notable scene where he pins one against a lamp post. The best death occurs when the audience finds out that the infected things die in sunlight, when one leaps at Neville and goes out the window only to writhe and sizzle on the pavement. But really, there aren't any "shout an expletive out loud" quality deaths in IAL, but surprisingly it doesn't really detract anything from the film experience.

TRUTH TO SOURCE MATERIAL:

AVP wins almost too hard, if not by default, in the source material contest. It is pretty much text book alien and predator scenery, homage after homage, whorring itself to the genre fans in a fit of "remember this?"s. Aliens are seen crawling on ceilings, emerging from shadows, drooling right up next to scared women, all the familiar shit that we remember from the other 5 movies. Other than adding a few new gadgets to his arsenal, Predator does all the same moves we know him for as well, including the "turn invisible and flash your eyes before you impale someone" move, the "slow ascension from the water as the invisibility shorts out", "skin the dude and hang him from the branch", the "heal your injured leg in a tree with neon blue acid and then yell real loud because it hurts" scene, and of course the "slowly remove your face mask before the final fist fight against the alien boss". They even tossed in the "What the hell are you?" line into the script, although thank Zeus it's not actually predator who says it. I like my intergalactic sport hunters silent and sans catch phrases, thanks. As I left the theatre, I almost felt a little cheated because looking back on the movie it just seemed like their answer to the wash of anguish the first AVP caused was just to reshoot the classic moments of both films frame for frame in a new medium and tie it together with a sub par plot and call it good. (WINNER for unabashed regurgitation of the classic moments from both series.)
IAL strayed long and far from the original story written by Richard Matheson. Essentially, the only thing that remained intact was the concept of the last man on earth sharing the world with monsters. In the book Robert Neville is an alcoholic ex family man living in a non-descript residential suburb who spends his nights drinking out of pure fear as vampires try to break into his house and eat him. The females try to tempt him out by making sex noises because they know he's alone and sans lady, his neighbor he used to be friends with harrasses him endlessly trying to incite anger and get him outside, and he can hear them crawling all around the house while he drinks himself into a stupor. During the day he hunts them out of their hovels and kills them while they sleep, hoping that if he can kill them all then he'll finally be able to rest. The book follows very traditional vampire rules: they won't go near garlic, he kills them with wooden stakes and by dragging them into the sun, they are sentient, etc. The film doesn't incorporate any of this. Neville is a military bio chemist, he lives in New York, he is haunted by scores of savage humans infected by a virus he helped spread, and his source of anguish comes from trying to find a cure during the day and not getting eaten at night. I'm really sick of the "virus that turns people rabid and angry" plots that have been circulating since 28 Days Later, and it seemed a huge cop out when the original story worked so well with just vampires. They're vampires! No need to invent a scientific explanation, to create a plausible theory. Vampires are so engrained in horror culture they don't need plausibility, the audience will accept it and it saves the writer the challenge of making it really real. They suck blood, make new vampires, and eventually they'll run out of people: I am Legend the book! For me, the biggest bummer in this area was the implication of the movie's title. The words "I am legend" are essential to the book in a very clever way, and as it is the core plot twist in the final moments of the story. I won't spoil it here, because it's so good it's worth not spoiling on the off chance someone checks it out after reading this rant (God bless you, you tolerant tolerant soul). In the movie, all it means is that Robert Neville's blood is the cure for the virus, which he doesn't discover until his final moments. So he dies, but his blood contains the anti-body that cures the virus and allows humanity to start over. Yeah, I spoiled it, because when it unveils at the end of the movie, it's what you've been thinking for the last hour.

SPECIAL EFFECTS:

"Not bad, but not great." is what I would say for AVP's special effects. I love that they stayed pretty far away from relying on digital effects for that movie. The costumes in both the Alien and Predator series were pretty groundbreaking and believable for their time. They stay true to it and use digital effects as enhancement rather than a crutch. No complaints here. Party on.
While IAL uses digital effects pretty heavily, they are pretty good and do some amazing things for the ambience of the film. As stated throughout, my skepticism for this movie was at the boiling point and I expected to be pawing to the arcade after 25 minutes. However, from the first open shot of Manhattan as a desolate, uninhabited wasteland, I was grateful that I got to the theatre to see it on a big screen. The digital rendition of the infected humans worked pretty well in low lighting scenes, but closeups and brighter scenes betrayed obvious digital effects and pulled me out of the moment. It's not hard to take a good physical actor and paint some rotting skin and scabby mouth sores on them for a realistic antagonist, and I wish they had gone that route as opposed to the digital paint job. Regardless, the overgrown tundra of Manhattan totally won me over. (WINNER for an entirely believable "forgotten" Times Square.)

ACTUAL QUALITY / "WATCH IT AGAIN" POTENTIAL:

Sadly, AVP's entertainment value comes to a sharp stop beyond the visceral carnage and I found myself bored beyond measure at the parts when someone wasn't dying. I was hoping that the story would involve just aliens and predator with humans getting caught up like sheep grazing at a shooting range, but unfortunately a sad, pathetic human story got wound into the mix and left me gagging for blood. The typical Hollywood love story is present, featuring underdog skinny dude, fawning after hot blonde with low cut v necks, thwarted by her overprotective jerk boyfriend. They also spin in an ex-military mom just back from Iraq, reunited with her family, only to have her husband mash faces with an alien, prompting her to kick ass, drive armored vehicles and fly helicopters to save the day. LAME. This is never, ever, what horror fans want to see, EVER, but for some reason it plagues pretty much every film that comes from a major studio. If you can't afford good actors or screenwriters, don't rely on them! Drop the "story", and show us some brutal shit! It's what we paid for, so deliver. I don't think I'll make any effort to see this movie again, but I would allow it as background noise while writing, playing DS, shitting, or playing triumphant riffs on my Fender. As long as I have something to do when Predator is not on screen or an alien is not eating it's way out of a pregnant stomach, then we're cool. It was good, a marked improvement on the last one, but the Hollywood formula hobbles the momentum and will keep it well out of my DVD collection. While the deaths and gore were great, it was all very rehash and could've used some more inspiration.
Maybe it was because I expected to hate it, but IAL pretty much blew me away. Will Smith was a big part of the formula, as he left his "witty bad ass" character from Bad Boys and Independance Day that I was so loathe to watch destroy my favorite vampire story at the door, and really pulled the thing off. His relationship with his dog is downright emotional, and he is extremely believable as a guilt racked dude completely alone in the husk of the biggest city in America. He is not a hero, he is flawed, he fucks up, he gets hurt, and he gets really scared. It wasn't the story I wanted, but it stands alone as a good movie thematically based on the book and the scenery and ambience are tense and compelling. I wish they had incorporated the same message that the title "I am legend" implies at the end of Matheson's book, but at the same time the further they went from it the more sacred and intact it remained in my eyes. It's hard for me to say they ruined it in the movie, when thhey barely even touched it in the first place. I just wished they would've picked a different title for the movie, but if I was involved in production I would probably use it anyways. It's a fucking great title. All said and done, the movie was great and I would absolutely watch it again. (WINNER for making that hurty lump in my throat when the dog dies.)

WINNER:
The winner is I am Legend. If you can stomach some sub par digital closeups on the bad guys, then I recommend it highly over AVP. AVP is a rental. Buy I am Legend the book and read it between the bloody parts. I'm betting your TV will be on mute after 10 minutes.

The best birthday present I have ever received

2007-12-13T15:27:00.000-08:00

Orcs & Elves for DS!

2007-12-06T15:27:00.000-08:00

Hark! Orcs & Elves is out for Nintendo DS! I almost bought this game whilst internet window shopping for a game to play on my cell phone, but ended up not commiting because my phone is a petrified chunk of rat droppings and I was worried it would crumble to dust if I pushed anything more complex than the Bejeweled demo on it. I could mug you with it and still text Maria to pick up some cat food on the way home. The thing is rock with a talk hole.

But it's out for DS now! I was instantly attracted to it when I first looked it up as it harkened back to my memories of trudging through the tedious step-by-step dungeon crawl gameplay of Shadowgate, Sword & Serpents, Wizardy, and this one awesome game I used to rent for NES as a kid that had these crazy zombies and spiders that would attack a little too often. These games were a tedious mess, and often times not worth the effort of playing to completion, but my 10-12 hood is brimming with memories of tenaciously building parties, crafting the perfect balance of fighters, healers, and spell casters (what good is a thief in a dungeon crawl?) giving them names like "Shitface" and "Assface" and "Buttface", and then cleaving down enemies until level two or three where I was invariably slaughtered by the outrageous difficulty curve.

No doubt, Orcs & Elves has been refined in this matter, in these modern days of user friendly game experiences. It's not the 80's any more, we don't have the "three lives and you're fucked, start over!" wall punching, controller snapping games to tackle these days, and this is why I'm excited. I might actually complete this one.

Good review on 1up.com, and Scott Sharkey seems to value what I'm looking for in a port like this. Will definietly be picking it up soon.

Blizzard + Activision = end of the world?

2007-12-05T19:45:00.000-08:00

It was recently announced that Activision and Vivendi are set to merge in a deal worth 18.9 billion space bucks. If you don't know, Vivendi owns Blizzard, who made World of Warcraft, which is the biggest online videogame ever, and has made Blizzard one of the most profitable game companies in the world. To me this is slightly insane on Vivendi's behalf, and I imagine the offices at Activision have ceased operations for a company wide kegger hosted by Night Elf beer wenches. That's right, your next 'gotta have' shit smeared movie license videogame will be delayed because the devs are beer bonging PBR in Tauren costumes and laugh-vomiting all over their keyboards. I wonder if they're going to get free WoW accounts...

This trumps EA's recent acquisition of BioWare/Pandemic, and actually bumps them down a notch to #2 most hugely unnecessarily profitable game publisher in America, and we all know second place is the first loser. I'm eager to see what kind of shenanigans they pull to get back on top. Maybe they'll try and buy Microsoft. The gods would laugh.

To me it's just pretty crazy. As long as the games remain untainted (actually, Activision could probably use some Blizzard-ness to help gloss up some of their IPs) I suppose it doesn't really matter unless you work at one of the two companies, but the monopoly mayhem going on is a little unsettling. Am I the only one who's a bit nervous at the umbrella shadow that is being cast over today's prominent developer houses? If they can be bought this easily, can they be shut down and/or pawned just as easily? Well, if it means we get "Call of Warcraft", pitting the Horde in a vicious ground skirmish against the nazis in northern France then I guess I can't be too skeptical, right? Heil Grom Hellscream!

BeoW00T!

2007-12-03T09:36:00.000-08:00

I plunged and took the supreme risk of going to see Beowulf this weekend. I wanted to see it, had to scratch the itch, to gaze into the depths of Pandora's box and see if it was worth it, worth my time, my money, my love. It was good. Way good.

Not good for everyone though. I would say that experience with Dungeons & Dragons and/or familiarity with at least two fantasy authors or series by name is a prerequisite, and no, Beowulf the book doesn't count. I would not recommend this movie to those of you who are expecting a "realistic" CGI film, in the literal sense, regardless of how it has been advertised by it's makers. The movie is "realistic" in zero ways, both in visuals and story. For those who will nit pick, the fields are ripe with swollen fruit, bursting from the vine and begging to be plucked and hurled. I'll get you started: The human faces are at times laughably faux, the physics are too controlled and lack weight (seen Shrek?), and a running horse looks like two dudes in a pantomime horse costume... running.

But shut up. Shut up all you guys like me, who are plucking at all the flaws with the relish of a bored 10 year old mauling a daisy. All the post film banter of what didn't work, who looked like shit, what dialogue made you barf in your mouth, it all dissolves in the overly epic action sequences that are spread perfectly throughout the course of the film. Just like the Lord of the Rings films, where Pippin's emotional crooning and Frodo's tortured pretty boy grimace were dashed like sand on the rock of rampaging Oliphaunts and thousand Orc sieges, so do Beowulf's flaws melt into putty beneath the shadow of Grendel and possibly the most bad ass dragon a film has ever seen.

Crispin Glover continues his legacy of the tortured, psychotic weirdo that invokes equal portions sympathy and disgust as the voice of Grendel, hardly speaking any words and relying more on screams of anguish and alarm. Yeah, Grendel isn't the T-1000 unstoppable monsterific force that is eluded to in the orginal epic, he's actually a deformed retard CHUD baby sans genitals that happens to be huge and capable of causing extreme damage in his infantile rage. He evoked strong sympathy with me. His motivation for coming down the mountain and grinding Hrothgar's people into pulp is because they party too loud and he can't sleep, something we've all craved and pondered during those summer nights when the neighbors are having deck parties and raging barbeques. Surprisingly, Angelina Jolie looked a little less hideous than in real life portrayed as the water demon with a pointy tail. Bitch can walk on water... in heels! Anthony Hopkins, as the digital King Hrothgar, is one of the more believable characters portrayed as a toga clad, drunk, party animal.

Anyways, if you're a fan of the battle scenes in Lord of the Rings, have ever enjoyed table top role playing, or just like dudes with swords fighting monsters, be sure to catch Beowulf in the theatre (in 3D) before it goes. Both Grendel and the final fight against the dragon is pretty mind blowing, and well worth the ticket price and boring talky parts between the blood and chopping.

The Jeff Gerstmann debacle

2007-12-01T22:38:00.000-08:00

I recently read about a bummer of a situation that went down over at videogame internet hub, Gamespot dot com. One of the major videogame websites out there, Gamespot is like Wolf Man in the monster world. Not up there like Dracula (IGN.com), but pretty well known. A staple. The site sees thousands of visitors, has a billion annoying pop up ads, and every page takes about a minute to load on your average high speed connection because they throw so much bullshit in your face at every possible moment that it turns your computer into an 80 year old man in a sack race. I usually go there rather than IGN for game information, because IGN always felt very corporate, like trying to find an article that says "Stop it with the disco drums!" in Rolling Stone, pandering to the big players and high profiles. Sadly, that has changed.

Jeff Gerstmann was the Senior Editor at Gamespot, playing games and writing reviews, and considered a top player in the world of game media. As I said earlier, I would go to Gamespot for their game feedback because it was immediately apparent any time reading their material that these guys played the games, cared about them, wanted a good experience, and weren't shy about letting the consumer know which games were not worth their money. Jeff was no exception, and while I don't recall any of his reviews from previous visits, mainly because I don't really give a shit about the name of the dude putting the words down on the webpage, his review of Kane and Lynch: Dead Men by Eidos shows exactly how scrutinizing these guys can be in the face of flashy graphics, lots of violence, and an almost Reservoir Dogs style videogame that should make most gamers shudder in anticipation. So why do I suddenly care about the reviewers name? Because he gave it a 6 out of 10 and was fired the day after his review went live. Not only fired, locked out of his office and asked to leave the premises. That's some bullshit I expect to see in the President's cabinet on a fierce episode of 24, not to hear about from an internet game company. Working in games is supposed to be like being Tom Hanks in Big, and many of us try very hard to keep it that way.

(Kane and Lynch, respectively, I think.)

Apparently Eidos had spent more than a few hundred thousand dollars in advertisements for Kane and Lynch on Gamespot. When the review went live, they supposedly read it, and then pulled more hundreds of thousands of dollars reserved for future titles from the site. As Gamespot's revenue lies entirely in the sale of web ads, I can see how this could cause the bosses to run to the men's room and check their boxers. There's no official word from the Gamespot business crew on the issue, in the typical "no comment" backhanded deflection tactic popular amongst the corporate hounds when they shit on some guy, prompting one of us with morals to say, "Hey, you just shit on that guy." The only reasons given for the termination all seem to revolve around Jeff's "tone" rather than what he specifically wrote, and that he had been "talked to" about his "tone" on previous occasions. This, of course, is as vague as black matter. There's no such thing as "tone" in the written word. The "tone" is created in the reader's head, and regardless, it's not even worth an argument because it anyone can look at the situation and see with the utmost clarity that blaming "tone" is simply a lie. Yeah, a lie. His bad review lost Gamespot a lot of ad money, so they freaked out and fired him. When you read it like that it almost makes sense.

In addition to the finger pointing and vagueries from the corporate side of Gamespot, there has also been no official word on the situation from Jeff's peers at Gamespot, the other editors, who are the ones I really want to hear from and probably have a very biased yet true accounting of what went down. Their silence absolutley makes sense, because if they're now facing life on the chopping block then there's no reason to start coming to work in short shorts and cat-in-the-hat hats. I did track down an unofficial commentary from a supposed Gamespot editor, in which the mysterious blogster pretty much confirms the obvious. Notable quotes from the above link are as follows:

"Our last executive editor, Greg Kasavin, left to go to EA, and he was replaced by a suit, Josh Larson, who had no editorial experience and was only involved on the business side of things. Over the last year there has been an increasing amount of pressure to allow the advertising teams to have more of a say in the editorial process; we've started having to give our sales team heads-ups when a game is getting a low score, for instance, so that they can let the advertisers know that before a review goes up."

"I was in the meeting where Josh Larson was trying to explain this firing and the guy had absolutely no response to any of the criticisms we were sending his way. He kept dodging the question, saying that there were "multiple instances of tone" in the reviews that he hadn't been happy about, but that wasn't Jeff's problem since we all vet every review. He also implied that "AAA" titles deserved more attention when they were being reviewed, which sounded to all of us that he was implying that they should get higher scores, especially since those titles are usually more highly advertised on our site."

Okay. No need to keep going on this trajectory, other than to point out Josh Larson is a douche, but here's what I'm getting at: Where does this leave us, the confused and addled consumer when seeking advice on hot shit xtreme game titles? We are being assaulted constantly via TV, internet, magazines, billboards, soda pop cans, and whatever the fuck else with crazy ads for games. If the marketing department can differenciate from one's ass and one's elbow, they make the game look good. Real good, regardless of the actual experience therein. I'm in a commited relationship and have been for a long time, but at my core I am a bachelor in many ways. One of the manifestationsof said bachelorism is in my quest for desired information. I don't scroll down the list of citysearch reviews on a restaurant if I'm curious about the fare they offer, I go there and fucking eat it. If I want to see a movie, I go straight to the theatre listing of the closest cinema and find the next screening and then I go and watch it. When I want to find out if some crazy looking game I just saw an ad for is worth half a shit, I go to Gamespot and check the review. I can't do that anymore! I now know full well that whether or not the editors like it, their content is now in league with the media machine chomping at our wallets and their integrity as journalists is about as sound as particle board.

So the next logical step is finding a new source for authentic and honest reports on the regurgitated refuse disguised as cream soda coming from the game publishers. And that's truth, so so many games look like they're going to be fan-fucking-tastic and end up coming out like spoiled turds. Penny Arcade has always been the best source for game reviews, mainly because they don't actually review games for a living. As fans of videogames, they laud the games they are playing and enjoying, and they complain about the ones that are worth the time and effort of complaining about in a public forum such as teh interwebzzor. It's much more genuine than a guy who's job is to play shitty games all day and then try and politely convey that they'd rather eat a plate of hot garbage than spend another minute in the grips of whatever digital nightmare they've had to grapple with. Every time I've acted on a favorable PA recommendation it's been worth it. But, what makes their reviews so good is precisely what makes them unreliable at this particular service I need. You can't go to their site and get a quick run down of the new Conan game, because they didn't bother writing about it. This leaves us in the grip of blogs and less professional sites and publications for authentic game reviews. Will they be honest? Yes. Will they be untouched by the pressures of marketing and corporate hand shakes? Yes. Will they most likely be written by fan boys who are "above message boards" and just want to gorge on a feast of their own jaded views on whether or not cell shaded Link is cool? Fucking yes godammit. So while Gamespot was not the be all end all of game reviews, it served a very important service in my life and I'm sad that I have to put it on the Bullshit Shelf next to Jaws Unleashed and new Star Wars.

And really, this post is also about how horribly Jeff Gerstmann was treated for not giving to marketing pressure and being true to the fans that built gaming into the disc golem it is today. This shit happens all the time, and it's tragic. I put it in the same unjust category of unnecessary rent increases in cheap apartment buildings occupied by low income tenants, and charging $9.75 for an afternoon showing of Norbit. Highway robbery! I hope that he goes on to find employment at a place that values honesty and us old schoolers that are still scrounging and spending to be able to keep up with our favorite form of entertainment, or better yet that he starts his own site or magazine.

I do feel the need to interject on the subject of Kane and Lynch before I wrap up here. I was lucky enough to meet an employee of Eidos Germany while on tour in Europe, and he invited us to the office to hang out, see the digs, shoot the shit, and psyche him the fuck out bragging on my Halo skillz. While there he demo'd the first level of Kane and Lynch for us on the office PS3 and I have to say it looked pretty good. From an observers point of view, I could tell there was a bit of trickery with the aiming (an element that gets a lot of shrapnel in Gerstmann's review) and one thing that would bother me if I had control was the slow speed at which the characters move. I hate that in a game. But it looked fun, and isn't that what we're looking for in a game? The theatrical way in which the encounters unfolded were intriguing and downright progressive. I can't say too much because I didn't have any actual hands on experience with the game which is the only way to properly scrutinize, but I left the building with the game on my "to rent" list. One thing he does say that I sympathize with involved the inconsistency of attaching to cover: "...it seems like you're always snapping into cover behind something at the most inopportune times, making the game quite frustrating." This was a problem I had with Gears of War during frantic close quarters battles, and it is lost on me if anyone ever went on record saying this in a review for that game. If the proverbial 'they' didn't, the proverbial 'they' should have.

But, in reading Gerstmann's review one can see the wear and tear of a decade of game reviews under the belt, as he seems to slightly nit pick, favoring his editorial space for the crucifixion of the game's flaws and largely ignoring some of the more theatrical feats I witnessed at Eidos. I'm hardly standing up for the decision to fire him based on his review, I'm not even playing devil's advocate. It's just the inverse sharp edge of having honest, experienced reviewers that aren't fan boys or message board spammers. Their job is to play games and judge them on the behalf of the consumer. It's all they do, cast judgement. If you do any job (no matter how sweet it is) for a long time you get burnt out in little ways, it's unavoidable. The burn these men feel is the mediocrity of the sub par game that gets hyped beyond hype and fails to deliver on fundamental mechanics. They lash out and do their best to level the bar, and I respect that with all the floating skittles that comprise my soul, but sometimes I just want to pass by the angst.

All said and done, I think the "User Score" at the header of the review speaks the loudest on the issue. A score of 2.6 out of 10, averaged from 3,410 votes at the time of this writing. Utterly abysmal. Internet backlash from the Gerstmann debacle? Possibly. It also suggests that Gerstmann did indeed comply with his corporate superiors and score the game much higher than he had desired in the face of Eidos's deep pockets. Regardless, I salute Jeff and hope he comes out of this whole mess better off, both financially and spiritually.

Ninja Warrior

2007-11-30T16:10:00.000-08:00

Maria, the lovely and wise, did humanity a great service while I was gone and ordered a bonus cable package that will last us a meager six months. I've always been against cable TV, it's like inviting a black hole into your living room. A black hole that makes you stupid. But, invariably, I watch. I'm on my mandatory 100 day break from working at Microsoft... It's this horrible headlock they grapple you with should you choose to seek their employ. A huge percentage of the Microsoft work force is made up of contractors like myself, and to get around giving us things like good wages and benefits, we are forced to take a "vacation" every 9 to 12 months. While I relish my work at MS / Bungie, I also love not working. Either way I'm a winner and a loser. A woser?

So anyways, my days are filled with excrutiating trips to the gym, drinking brutally strong coffee, typing on the lappy toppy, playing guitar, watching TV, and lots of Halo 3. The coffee-Halo combination has been pretty fun as I can get pretty worked up. The other day I was drying off in the shower and noticed a fist sized bruise just over my right knee... a bruise made from punching myself in caffeine induced frenzies of anger after being Needler'd or losing the melee hit coin toss.

Daytime TV kind of blows a lot. But, for dudes like me there is a savior. A gistening golden messenger of health and prosperity, a cupid, a perfect package of entertainment. Her name is G4, and watching her is like eating pizza. Complete, rampant indulgence. For those who don't know, G4 is a channel made for nerds. Most programs revolve around gaming, others will show off the latest tech gadgets, movie previews, graphic novel reviews, and one show called Cinematech just feeds 30 minutes of game footage. No commentary, just games. I'm watching it right now. They just played a commercial where a unicorn vomits a PSP. I can say with absolution that I have never seen a unicorn vomit a gaming system anywhere else, and it is unlikely that I will ever go back on that statement.

However, if I can recommend anything to you few friends who read this, it is a program called Ninja Warrior. To sum it up, average Japanese dudes run through ridiculous obstacle courses to try and push a giant red button before the clock runs out. The obstacles vary from simple jumps over a water pit, to rope swinging like Tarzan (it's actually called the "Tarzan Ropes"), to trampolining over more water pits to grapple onto rope nets, to hanging onto a rolling log that spins and knocks the contestant into, yes, a water pit. The failures are nothing short of hillarious, awkward crashes into the muddy depths below, limbs completely splayed, rendering any and all athleticism moot. The victories are butt clenching. I actually flex and squirm watching the poor Ninja hopefuls grapple that last climb up the rope to the shiny red button, arms weak, straining, the clock ticking away the last ten seconds. The subtitled commentary is of course priceless, as can be expected from most Japanese game shows.

But truly the most enamoring element to the show are the contestants themselves. They are serious. Some dish it out with a garnish of humor, but many of them are motivated and passionate. About ninjas. Or I guess, about being a ninja. These people are entering the competition years and years in a row. They are training in their free time, building elaborate reconstructions of the challenges that thwarted their last attempt. I understand the drive to succeed, the passion needed to return to a potentially ruinous situation at the behest of ones pride, only to best yourself. But these people are running full kilter across foam rocks for the titlee of "ninja", largely useless in today's world of commerce and business. They are dressing like ninjas. They are dressing like superman and spiderman. They are dressing in their work outfits, their sports uniforms. It's like they are meelding their identity with the challenge. My favorite contestant so far owns a gas station. He has competed five years in a row and never gotten past the first challenge. He competes in his work uniform: red shirt with name tag, hat, dark slacks. The previous year he made it to the last rope climb, mere feet from the almighty button, and dislocated his shoulder in a freak twist. I just watched him fail again, timing out on the same rope climb that doomed his last attempt (I was flexing!), and I'm sure he'll be back next season.

I leave you with OCTOPUS as a teaser. The guy is 57.

Europe Summary

2007-11-30T15:59:00.000-08:00

Akimbo just got back from a three week tour in Europe. We hit the usual stops: Germany, France, Holland, Denmark, Czech Republic, Belgium, Switzerland, and Italy. The tour was a success, I got a bit cranky at times, but there's nothing like unlimited beer to cure one of their particulars. I can sum it all up with this picture, taken at our sold out show in Berlin.

Look at my face. It's seriously the ugliest picture that's ever been taken of me. I can't stop laughing at this shit. Vanity, where art thou?

Resident Evil: Shit Stink Tion

2007-09-29T00:23:00.000-07:00

Maria and I went and saw the new Resident Evil movie tonight. I cast this blargery using the snide leer of a gamer, a nerdus extremus that not only examines the film for it's stand-alone merits as a moving picture, but also as homage to the game that inspired it. Spoilers lie beyond. You have been warned.

In griping about this movie, one must take into account that it falls under a very unique sub-sub-genre. It's not just a zombie movie, it's a zombie movie based on a video game. There's a huge difference, and that difference is that all movies based on video games suck. Straight up. It's science, as absolute as gravity. If I drop a rock, it falls down and hits the ground. If I make a movie based on a video game, it eats balls and pisses off nerds. However, what brings these movies above any other shit fest is that they havee the opportunity to stay loyal to the subject matter and therefore appease the fans that allowed it to exist in the first place. This is how I justify watching these deplorable hunks of ass meat, and ultimately what keeps me going back to the theatre and paying money. I know it's going to be bad by all "movie" standards, but I'm driven by an unholy force to see how well they adopt the artistic direction of the games, almost like I'm watching over Hollywood to make sure everything is ok and that our little social group isn't shit on too hard.

The Resident Evil movies have sucked since their inception, plain and simple. The first one has it's moments, and is a decent zombie movie, but Michelle Rodriguez is an automatic fail if you are trying to make a film with "quality" and "charisma". I cheered in real life when she got kicked off of Lost for that DUI in Hawaii. Stay away from my show you cudgel of an actress. Milla Jovovich is of course a babe, and her willingness, nay, quest to get naked in her movies is huge points for the RE films. I would say that the definining moment of the first movie is her slow motion ninja kick to the skinless zombie dogs. Yeah, it was in the preview. Twice. But sadly, blurry crotchal shots only go so far and I am not, nor ever will be a dude who's into Mr. Skin dot com. The second movie, Nemesis, had absolutely ZERO redeeming qualities and was a straight up slap in the face to all the geeks who spent all that money building the Resident Evil empire. At this time I'd like to say 'fuck you' to Capcom for allowing our baby to get raped that hard, for that long, on that big of a screen, for $9 a ticket. I was a huge fan of Resident Evil 3 (for you trogs out there who haven't played the games, the big puffy asshole in the rubber penis suit in Apocalypse was the central villain for the third game, and I bit my pillow and cried when I saw the movie for the first time) even though many gamers tout it as a weak entry to the series. In my harsh, jaded, bullish opinion, the Nemesis character was a step in the right direction for the continuity of the drama surrounding the Umbrella story, and every time he broke through a wall and made my life suck for 2 minutes as I mashed and smashed the controller trying to get away was a true experience in gaming life. Touche, Nemesis. We had a good run. After the second film was ruined, I threw my hands up in exasperation, once again cursing the powers that be for turning a robust gaming experience into pithy drabble, and expanding further on the sterotype that video games are only for slobbering nerds during masturbation breaks, inherently and forever lame...

Until I saw the preview for Resident Evil: Extinction. Like a kitty sniffing a freshly opened can of tuna I was pawing at the cinema screen watching Milla once again take to the air, slow motion ninja kicking zombies in the middle of the desert, dressed like The Road Warrior and wielding twin daggers. Seriously, shit looked like Mad Max working his way through the undead masses, only with hyper charged ninja skillz, short shorts, and boobies. I was pumped, but as I've proved many times before I am a prime sucker for a preview that promises graphic violence and reanimated corpses. So of course, the fuckers got my admission money. Again. And I'm left with merely a poorly attended blog site to reap my righteous revenge.

The movie begins after all the previous Resident Evil lore entered into the series through the movies and games, with the insatiable T-Virus turning planet earth into a wasted desert. That's right, the T-Virus kills water. Scientific botchery aside, I completely approve of apocalyptic settings for these kind of movies so I roll with it and sit tight. It immediately becomes apparent that zero effort was put into writing interesting dialogue, you know, like for a movie, with people that talk to eachother. I haven't seen worse dialogue since Path Finder. It was like watching a cut scene from Resident Evil 2, which had some of the most awkward cinematics in the PlayStation's career. While I respect Capcom as giants in the game industry, fathers of a myriad of classic and contemporary master pieces, they can't deliver semi believable voice acting to save their lives and this is the first consistent line one can draw from the game to the movie. Sad.
It takes a while for anything decent to happen, the first of two good scenes rolls in after about 20-30 minutes in and involves a bunch of pissed off crows that attack a convoy of protagonists. The body count is moderate and the special effects are pretty good, but all it is is The Birds on steroids. Flock of creepy birds, lots of swooping, eyes getting pecked out, squaking, etc. The humans fight back, yes, by shooting at the crows with pistols, and much to my shagrin the flying devils did not produce any hand gun ammunition or red gems once killed, which was one of my favorite little moments of obvious un-realism in Resident Evil 4. The environment is the most vivid and detailed out of any of the games, so real that you could even shoot and kill the cows, chickens, crows... and they drop a box of hand gun bullets for your trouble. Must've been nestled under the wing. W00t!
But this scene, while awesome and filled with people being eaten alive by zombie crows, introduces one of the lamest concepts from the movie into the mix. Telekinetic powers! Right as the dude manning the giant flamethrower on top of the school bus (why do they always have one of those in an apolcalyptic desert movie?) gets his face chewed by birds and sends the flamethrower in a deadly arc towards two of his allies, Alice (Jovovich) shows up and drops an energy bubble around them, bouncing the fire up at the birds to save the day. WHAT?!?!? Not once has telekinesis been marginally approached in the games or movies, unless you count Wesker's force punch in the Mercenaries mini game, or the occasional defiance of physics during a particularly nasty boss fight. Suddenly, Alice has "powers", and can do all kinds of unrealistic bullshit so that the special effects team can wank to their wanking heart's content and the writing team doesn't have to come up with feasible ways for her to get out of sticky situations. Fucking bullshit! How come when I was trapped in a mansion with a giant snake vomiting poison every which way I couldn't just summon an energy ball and blow a hole in through the door? Why did I run back and forth through Raccoon City to gather keys and figure out 7th grade picture puzzles when I could have just floated my way to the final encounter? Why the fuck did I spend all those spinnels and gems on weapon upgrades when I could have just given chainsaw-bag-head a seductive look and broken his neck with my brain? Think of all the outfits Leon could have bought.

The second good scene is the action sequence that goes down when the group reaches the sanded-over Las Vegas of the future. No time to hit the Bellagio, we've got to kick the balls off of crazy running zombies. Yes, even though the previews clearly show the standard "shuffling" zombies of yore, the primary zombie killing moments happen in an extended, violent, extreme sports commercial. While slow zombies dominate the game series, running zombies are not new to the RE world. You will recall the "red face" zombies from the RE1 remake for GameCube that would sit up upon you re-entry to their place of death and promptly haul ass to your vicinity and mop the floor with your skin. Shit was terrifying. Not so on film. The running zombies, with their matching one piece jump suits and shaved heads, looked like a rotting Blue Man Group charging out of a cloning device like pop corn. Regardless, they were shot, stabbed, sliced, and chopped, every bloody burst almost bringing me back onto team RE. The body count of friendlies during this scene should also be noted, and most of the sub-par actors floundering for screen time were snuffed with efficiency. My faith was not fully restored though, and unfortunately the boss fight was another telekinetic let down in the laser room.

The big bummer at the end was the obvious set up for a new RE movie, which I will avoid like buzzards perched on razor wire if the fruit does indeed ripen. They have some serious accounting to do if I pay full price for another Capcom infused feature. However, the previews for this film yielded an exciting look at 30 Days of Night, which looks awesome. Only father time will judge its true merit. The real excitement is that I know sometime in 2008 I'll get my hands on Resident Evil 5 for XBox 360. The game footage shown at E3 was absolutley mouth watering, even if it does prominently feature a white cop shooting black people in Africa. While Capcom's IPs stink like foot cheese when viewed through the standard de-awesomifying Hollywood goggles, I will unwaiveringly sport the RE flag when it involves the interactive experience that hooked us all in that first trounce through the mansion.

Life update

2007-09-19T14:12:00.000-07:00

Many months have passed since I donned the angry jerk hat and unleashed a violent tornado of cynicism and mirth into the unholy void of teh interwebzz. My time has come, the stars have aligned, the prophets have spoken truth. We junket.

The main reason for my blog neglect has been my recent employment at Microsoft/Bungie, where I've been lucky enough to get a contract position working on a huge, big deal, more important than "the children" and remembering 9/11 combined, title for the Xbox 360 that is just about to come out. I'm not going to say much about it, as I'm under contract to keep my flappers tight until it ships, and I'm pretty sure Microsoft has all manner of goons and snipers out there to bring the hammer down on squealers. I can't imagine a more potent humiliation than getting my knees broken by that stupid fucking Windows butterfly mascot. I can just see the dark, underground lair, where Bill Gates sits on is throne of puppy skulls, the banners of NetScape, PlayStation, and other crushed enemies ruthlessly displayed about his court. A hunched messenger with a Windows NT logo branded into his filthy forehead hobbles in and bows. Lord Gates beckons him to rise and speak. Keeping his head to the floor, he produces a scroll of Microsoft contractors that have violated their NDAs and whispers "My Lord, the serfs have been talking. We fear spies in the ranks..." Lord Gates brings a jeweled hand to his chin and slumps to one side of his throne, keeping his unmoving eyes on his faithful, disgusting, wretch of a servant. He lifts one hand, twitches his fingers away and says "Be gone, you know what to do". The cripple rises silent, turns, and begins his limped exit out of the great hall.
The following day I am found dead in my apartment, my tongue is cut out and nailed to my chest, and my throat is slashed so wide that half my neck looks like pasta. There is no sign of struggle or entry to the building. The only evidence is a solitary button from a Microsoft keyboard bearing the windows logo, jammed into the socket that once housed my right eye.

So, while I can't divulge any details until the game is out, I can give a hint and say it involves the most disgusting beverage ever to be released on humanity since Cod Liver Oil. That's right, Mountain Dew Gamer Fuel. Holy shit. Stay far far away from that acid shit gasoline nightmare. We had a few complimentary cases delivered to the office a few weeks back, and when my preferred "I'm an adult with responsibilities and I don't like sweet things" Talking Rain beverages were out, I figured what the hell, they can't be too bad. Wrong. Wrong fucking dead wrong. You could call that shit the key to Pandora's box, because if you poured it out on the ground it would burrow a hole straight to hell, unleashing myriad demons upon the world to feast forever on our suffering, eating our groins and drinking our wails of anguish. I could feel my teeth dissolving the second it hit my mouth. Yes, I drank my own teeth. Garbage.

So I'm on tour as I write this. Not going to do the tour blog just yet since we're not quite done. We're hanging out in San Diego with a few days off, thanks to our gracious host and good friend Dan. Dan is vegan, and hence we've adopted his diet during our stay with him. While I eat meat and dairy, I love vegan food and have nothing against it. However, my guts are not in agreement with my pallet, and I've been farting and shitting like a broken locomotive for the last three days. I imagine a raging wolverine in my body, clawing through the veggies and soy protein ferociously looking for a morsel of flesh, hoping beyond hope that a bug fell into my soy-rizo taco. Sorry wolverine. I promise I'll deliver on some In n' Out as soon as the delicious opportunity presents itself. For now, we roll with it and give the large intestine some exercize, which I guess is a good thing.

Speaking of band life, we just released a new album called Navigating the Bronze. Alternative Tentacles put it out again. We're all pretty happy with it. If you want to hear it or order it click away. It's our 5th full length record, which is kind of weird. We've been a band for almost a decade. I can't think of many other things I've done for that long on purpose.

At home, Maria, Max and I moved into a new apartment on capitol hill, right next to a woman who has no shame in orgasming loudly into the summer night. "ATTENTION WORLD! I'M GETTING LAAAAAAAAAAID!!!!!" It's way smaller than our last place but we like it a lot more. We're closer to tons of bars and grocery stores, uber convenience. The best part is that we have hard wood floors and a nice new slick couch with really smooth material. This means that Max has absolutely no grip when he's running around the apartment going nuts. It never gets old, seeing his little feet scurry against the floor for half a second before he actually moves. The best is when he tries to ambush you while sitting on the couch. He jumps up to attack but can't get a solid grip on the material. You look over and instead of getting a vicious kitty paw to the face, you see him earnestly trying to hold on as he slowly falls back onto the floor, his claws leaving an ineffective trail along the couch arm as he looks at you in utter, crushing defeat. Kitteh = self pwned.

Ok, it's go time now. I'm going to try harder to update this thing more often. It's way cheaper than a psychiatrist. I've seen a slew of movies that must be torn to shreds, this tour will require a brief dissection, and I have chapters upon chapters of life working at Microsoft that sadly must wait until the world gets their own opportunity to 'finish the fight'.

A formal, public apology to Yip Yip.

2007-04-25T15:25:00.000-07:00

Dearest Brian and Jason. I feel it is necessary to extend a public, humble apology to you and your legacy. It was brought to my attention recently by our mutual friend and associate Michelle Cable that I have inadvertantly defaced your band with a small typo, causing irrepairable harm to your public image and potential confusion and disaster amongst the veritable army of Yip Yip fans across the world. The offending text was posted in my tour blog on Akimbo's myspace, Michelle's blog page, and of course this blog as well, and reads as follows.

"The first treat was meeting Brian and Josh of Yip Yip and observing them interact with each other for the first time."

Mr. Jason Temple, I am a serious douche for calling you "Josh" and for this I am sorry. While I, along with many others am a complete shit bag when it comes to remembering names, I won't make any excuses for this novice error. Our short time together was an energetic, potent bro down, full of vigor and enthusiasm, and I feel I have forever tainted these memories with my inattentive sloppy bullshit at the computer, typing out lies and slander like I'm selling real estate. In addition to this misconstrued title I have heaved upon your grace, I would also like you two to know that my comments about your bickering with Brian are nothing but endearing and I mean no ill will when I talk about the time he hit you in the head. I really really like In the Reptile House and you guys were super sweet live, even when your keyboards were breaking.

I hope you can forgive me for this mistake, and that someday we can again confuse the shit out of audiences by playing together.

SxSW tour blog

2007-04-22T23:55:00.000-07:00

Tour started in Medford, Oregon at Johnny B's. The show was set up by our good friends Stacy and Kimbo Schrag and would be the first of many with Green Milk From the Planet Orange from Tokyo. Green Milk is a three piece that plays psychedelic jam rock, seated on stage in metal folding chairs, and is one of those bands that is so proficient they kind of make me feel like our band is a joke that gets by on volume. They have the nicknames "K" (guitar/vocals), "T" (bass) and "Ace" (drums) which they stick to outside of band life and only makes them more intriguing and awesome. Technically it was our second show with them if you count our kick off show in Seattle at the Comet Tavern, but I don't count Seattle shows as being on tour. I went home and slept in a bed, a kitty asleep on my belly and my special lady next to me. Not tour. No, tour started the next night in Medford playing to a small, enthusiastic crowd. There was a group of underage kids outside who battled the elements and watched the show through a window. They would yell and scream as if they were one of the other paying patrons, which from the inside didn't look weird at all, and was especially cool while playing to look up and see the crowd extend out of the building onto the sidewalk. These kids were jumping, screaming, high fiving and making the kind of scene you imagine only takes place while filming teen comedies on isolated movie sets. The best part was watching the kids from outside the building while Green Milk was playing. With the exception of the sound bleeding through the walls of the club, the street in Medford was bathed in silence. A silence that was periodically pierced with the shrill cries of adolescent ecstasy at a particularly tight drum fill or a seated leg thrust. After the show one of the kids came up to me, his eyes alive with the passion of being fully kicked in the face by a crazy band and asked, "Oh man!!! How can you play after that?!?!"
"We didn't" I replied. He just continued looking at me like I hadn't said anything. A short pause. Then he walked away. After the show we went back to the Schrag's and gorged on free pizza and the first batch of many many cheap, canned beers.

Next night was at the Alibi in Arcata, CA. We'd played Arcata/Eureka a few times before and never really had a great turn out, but Green Milk assured us that it was a good town for them. They were visibly giddy at the prospect of scoring good weed, almost more so than playing the show. At times it seems like they just go on tour to get high, and playing shows is a thing they do just to pass the time between rolling doobs. The show was great, easily Akimbo's best time in the Red Woods. They fed us and provided a good amount of beer. I met a guy who had played in a band at our first show in Eureka years ago, and after a short but potent bro down he bought Aaron and I shots, gently guiding us out of 'buzzed' and into 'drunk'. We retreated to a house down the road with Green Milk after the show where they started smoking weed like three angry little tornados. Akimbo did not partake, but ended up getting wicked stoned just from sitting in the room. All I remember from that point is having an intelligent conversation with one of the tenants on the couch. About what? I have no idea, but we were being serious and I felt smart. Right before I passed out T came running over to me with a small dish of hard little hash nuggets collected in a bowl and said "Cat food."

Davis wasn't the best show. The people who set it up were great and the bar staff was friendly, but it was one of those venues where bands are treated like a bonus for the patrons already there, instead of the reason for patrons to come. They didn't clear any of the tables or chairs in the show room, which is basically unleashing Napoleon on any chances of getting a fun vibe going at a show. Nevertheless, Akimbo has been dealt much sterner blows and we trudged through. I had a weird moment talking to a burnt out war veteran gone hippy and a drunk enlisted marine on leave at the same time. T, K, and Ace tried to sneak in an underage Green Milk fan that had driven about 4 hours to come see them, a sentiment I completely sympathize with but would have executed in a much less obvious and flawed manner. They instructed him to hide in the bathroom and wait for them to come get him. While he was in there, they were nervously walking around and constantly keeping hawk eyes on the ogre of a door guy checking IDs who had originally told the kid he couldn't come in. The plan was to wait until he wasn't looking and then tell the kid to come out and sit behind their merch table. It might have worked if they were a bit more casual about it, but they practically broadcasted to the whole room with their fidgeting and fleeting glances to the huge black guy at the front door that they were uneasy and something was about to go down. I just took a seat at a nearby table and enjoyed a beer, waiting for the show to start. Not five minutes pass and suddenly I see all three members of Green Milk hurriedly walking out of the men's room in a big clump with their underage hopeful crammed in the middle of their glob in an attempt to obscure him, like a weird skinny solar system casually cruising through a marginally full room of seated bar patrons. I don't know how anyone could have not seen the only three Japanese guys in the building quickly walking in a tight pack, a young white kid with "Municipal Waste" in neon green letters across his chest thrust into their pod, trying their damnedest to appear casual. As if that didn't scream for enough attention, once they got across the room and to the merch table they didn't allow him to casually meander around and assume the typical posture of a bored merch dude. No, they maintained formation in their conspicuous huddle and had the kid crawl under the table, at which point they instructed him to crouch behind a cardboard box barely big enough to come up to his shoulders. As if with perfect comic timing to the drama being played out before me, the door guy came strolling up to the merch table right as the kid nestled into the corner next to the cardboard box. Totally busted. He was ejected and watched the show from the sidewalk, which actually proved to be a much more entertaining vantage point when a drunk party dude took a swing at the same large door guy responsible for the kid's rejection and ended up getting body slammed into the pavement. After the show we found ourselves hanging out with Green Milk at a house where I had my first ever experience of playing Nintendo DS while high. One could say it was 'tight', and I believe my performance that evening could have landed me in one of many "stoned roommate" roles in any number of sit-coms or teen dramas.

The next day was off to San Francisco, and after a short stop at Alternative Tentacles HQ to record a quick pod cast with Mr. George Chen (Batcast #38, downloadable from the AT front page) and to fuel up on free swag and chocolate chip banana bread (thanks Maiko), we headed over to 12 Galaxies in the Mission, which happened to be 4 and a half blocks away from my favorite burrito shop in the world. Literally. The show was awesome and I got just drunk enough to figure another giant burrito the size of my forearm was a good idea after the show as well. I went to bed bloated and farting.

No time to waste any days in the deplorable shit fest known as 'Central Cali' so we went right down to LA for our next show at the Smell, which also began our huge 4 band tour out to Austin along side Green Milk From the Planet Orange, Yip Yip, and The Mall. We also had the pleasure of traveling with our booking agent Michelle Cable who was hitching a ride to Austin with all the bands. We got to know her very well and I'm glad that we're now good friends as well as "business associates". We'd never done a tour with three other bands all at once, and while we were preparing for marginal financial travesty, the money business ended up being ok and we had a hell of a lot of fun hanging out with everyone through Texas. The first night was no exception. We also played with Health and Old Time Relijun, who were both surprisingly great. When I say "surprisingly" I don't mean that I had assumed they were going to suck. It comes more from the fact that after touring for 7 years and seeing a kabillion bands in that span I have become a jaded asshole that rarely gives a band a chance without someone I deem 'credible' recommending them on some trivial quality, and otherwise I assume that I just won't like it which then allows me to go the way of the passive aggressive put down... "They were good and all... For what they do... Wasn't really my thing though." Yeah, I suck. But you're just like me. High five. Regardless, the show was great and the crowd seemed to like all the bands which is usually rare at 7 band shows. After the show we went back to the drummer of Health's place (names... always forgetting names...) and had a hushed hang out with all 14 or whatever there were of us, which turned into one of the funniest nights of the tour for me. The first treat was meeting Brian and Josh of Yip Yip and observing them interact with each other for the first time. Their personalities are similar to their music, which sounds like a Nintendo in a blender, and they argue like an elderly couple that has come to terms with the fact that the only reason they love each other is because they really really hate each other. After the first semi awkward round of introductions, they quickly settled into their routine of making witty jabs at each other as conversation to the group. They pull it off in a charismatic yet biting way that didn't necessarily anger the 'jabbed', but merely incited a rebuttal of equally venomous humor. At first it was hard to tell exactly how light hearted it all was, but when they started fussing over who got the 3' wide couch cushion pad thing to sleep on, one arguing that it was big enough to share, the other refusing simply because they didn't want to share, it became apparent that this banter was just how they had learned to co-exist as a two man band touring in a station wagon. The culmination seemed to come a few days later as they were doing their thing in a restaurant and one of them (I forget which one) triumphantly said "Remember the time you hit me in the head?" which cause the other to go silent. It was his ace up the sleeve, and he went on to tell us about the time he got the other so riled up he unleashed and attacked. It didn't sound like anything too violent, a quick slap to the head like young brothers fighting over the rights to a trivial toy, but it was a victory, sheer and pure. He had been pushed to the point of action, and while the results were not permanently damaging in a physical sense, his counterpart forever had a trump card that could be produced at any moment if things got too hairy, forever ending arguments with the reminder of the time he lost it and resorted to a non verbal counterattack. (Picture: Yip Yip doing shakey face.)

The other treasure of the evening again came when Green Milk got stoned (which is a bi, sometimes tri, nightly event). A shelf in the room we were hanging out in had a copy of E.T. amidst a few other movies. T was looking at the movie cover, depicting Elliot riding his bike in mid air, sillohuetted against the moon, his hairless alien buddy shrouded in white, nestled into the basket at the fore of the vehicle. T started telling us about how as a child seeing the grand moment shown on the cover at the crescendo of the film he was enraptured with it, loving every second, but now as an adult balks at the absurdity of the notion that a ten year old kid on a bike can fly simply by putting an alien in it's basket. (Thick Japanese accent) "When you are small, and you see this moment, you think it's very cool. So cool," he said. "But now, as adult, you see this... IT IS A VERY FUNNY SITUATION!" It's hard to convey how actually and truly funny this was with words, so I won't try.

After LA we went to Phoenix to play at Modified. We found out immediately upon arrival via a flyer on a pole outside that Big Business was playing across town that very night. Major bummer, but possibly a chance to meet up afterwards for some drinks. The show was ill attended and the only highlight was that I didn't see any scorpions. I'm always on high scorpion alert when traveling through the desert. Nature's ninjas. We ended up getting in touch with the corporate moguls in Big Business and headed off to a bar after the show to meet up and exchange stock tips while the rest of our group split up to stay at various locations. Coady had a good head start on us and stemmed his rampage to say a few quick hellos before returning to the slaughter of innocent pints, and we three took up residence at the bar next to Jared for some hob-nobbing. When the bar closed we rolled out with our other buddies in Totimoshi who also happened to be there (on their way to SxSW) and stayed with their friend at his awesome house.

Las Cruces was next. The events are best described in Michelle's post, but it was a small house off the beaten path surrounded by all kinds of broken machines and vehicles in a dusty yard. The show was just foreplay to an orgy of a party afterwards, a great evening with the whole group. Everyone took shaky face pictures at my urging, T sang Love Me Tender while drinking bourbon from an Elvis flask, we raged on the local foosball table, and in a fit of weed induced munchies K and Ace went to Carl's Jr. on a burger run and bought Akimbo a giant, beautiful bag of 15 hamburgers, which we nursed like babes at the teat for the next 2 days. At the slightest pang of hunger one could just reach down to the floor of the van, find a tightly wrapped Carl's Jr. burger with minimal effort and casually enjoy, as if taking a solitary corn chip from a Tostito's Big Bag. I slept in the van that night, deathly afraid of the scorpion/roach army that was surely waiting in silence for us to fall asleep before scuttling out from their recesses and laying eggs in our ears and butt holes.

The next day was day off day, and what better thing to do on a day off than watch scantily clad, perfectly sculpted, bare chested men prance around and fight off the forces of Prince and his army of racially stereotyped worldly soldiers while drinking jumbo sodas doused with so much rum it stings? Nothing! We drove to El Paso, found hotels, and immediately tracked down the local cinema playing 300. After the film we spent 30 minutes in the parking lot yelling "SPAAAARTAAAA!!!!" and then headed to El Paso Bowl for a few lanes before they closed. One of the best days off we've had on a tour yet. We closed it back at the hotel, falling asleep to John Ritter's dearly missed but very dead face in the always entertaining Remote Control.

We had to get up early for a big drive to San Antonio, TX. We were a little worried about going to the show that night, being that it was at a venue called The Sanctuary. A few tours back we played there with The Sword and got severely dicked over when the promoter decided it was a good idea to combine our show with a Total Chaos package tour without asking us before hand. In all his brilliance and wisdom, he had the four bands on the Total Chaos tour play before our show, which of course resulted in everyone promptly departing after they played, leaving us and The Sword playing to a nearly empty room around 3 am (this was before The Sword had put out their record and starting touring). This severely botched judgement, combined with a promise of ordering pizza and then not following through, garnished with $75 to split between both bands culminated in a heated argument in which Nat called him a "bad promoter" in so many words and threw a lit ciggarrette into his face. So naturally, we were a little skeptical about coming back, assuming that he had simply forgotten our band name but would remember our faces upon arrival. But, we were booked with a guarantee so fuck it. As we showed up we found out that we were the last band playing on a 21 band show. That is not a typo. Dude booked 21 bands in one day, indicating he had learned absolutely nothing from Nat's stern telling off and was still somehow convinced that he could go on jerking bands around by booking shows like he's trying to figure out some kind of critical thinking math problem at a Microsoft interview. For the touring bands out there that may be looking at playing the Sanctuary and wish to avoid such a debacle, the man's name is Angel, and I cannot fathom a mother that would bestow such a lofty title on such a beast of a human, as he fails to live up to it in both deed and appearance. Unless his mom is George Carlin, in which case I can see that working out in some kind of weird, sarcastic, "I'm playing the ultimate joke on life" kind of way, like advertising used motor oil on a dinner menu as "garlic bread".
Angel was there but we didn't talk to him (on purpose) and he made no move to approach us, which was fine by me. We dealt with another guy (again with the names) who was totally awesome and got us everything we needed. Except an audience. We played to less than ten people around 2 am, and they were all on tour with us. One thing that was indeed provided was an empty house next door to the venue for bands to hang out and sleep in, complete with a closet quite literally filled with liquor. Normally this would be the coolest shit in the world, but as the last band to play a 21 band show, it was like inheriting a dumpster packed with homeless winos. Not that bad actually. We again buddied up with K, T, and Ace (the rest of our group went on to Austin where they had a hotel room waiting for their stay during SxSW) and picked out an empty room to commandeer for the night. The house was already populated with all kinds of douche bags from a handful of the other bands that were sleeping there and had been drinking hard alcohol probably all day long, but we scored our little sleeping spot and set our bags down like we were stabbing flags into enemy soil. We rummaged through the liquor closet which had been totally picked over and was full of nothing but incessantly sweet liquors meant for mixed cock tails, stuff that you could never possibly drink straight, but managed to score a bottle of cheap yet surprisingly smooth tequila. We passed it around and Green Milk began the weed ritual. Not long into our post-show pre-sleep wind down, a particularly obnoxious and hammered dude from one of the other rooms came bursting into our locale dressed only in boxer shorts and shrouded in a blanket, and in that hurried drunken stumble we all do when we can't walk too well but we know we need to reach our destination before we fall over and/or vomit, he made his way right to the corner I had claimed not twenty minutes before. "Is anyone sleeping here?" he asked, in reference to my sleeping bag and pillow on the ground. Even though he was totally hammered, I ascertained that the stupidity of this question was rooted a little deeper than how many mouthfuls of triple sec he'd choked down that day. He struck me as one of those guys who kind of blunders through life by favoring bull-headedness for intelligence and rational thought, taking whatever he wants when the desire strikes and starting a fight if anyone complains. Clearly, the only thing a sleeping bag and pillow are used for is so that someone may sleep in the location they have been placed. It is the inherent function that both items were invented for. If a sleeping bag and pillow have been proportionally assembled in a location that has been established as a place of rest, such as the floor of this room, amidst other equally proportionally assembled sleeping bags and pillows housing sleeping people, then it should be obvious enough that one does need to ask if at some point in the future someone plans on occupying said sleeping bag and pillow.
"Yes." I said. "I'm sleeping there."
"Ok..." he said. At this point I figured we were done.
"I'm just gonna move this." To my surprise, and despite my voluminous protests, he drunkenly pushed my belongings aside, laid down his blanket, and immediately fell asleep. Literally. The second his body went still he was unconscious and snoring like a bull after a graze in a mushroom patch. The beast was hibernating. I was speechless. I thought about trying to get my spot back, it was a prime location in the corner away from foot traffic to the bathroom, but I had already protested and was ignored. Worst case scenarios started playing through my head, like getting punched by a drunk idiot, or worse, peed on in my sleep by a vengeful idiot. I decided to let sleeping assholes lie and move my stuff to the other room. The one full of snoring dudes that smelled like a weird combination of ash trays and slurpees, relying on the tried and true "drink so much you don't notice how gross the floor is" tactic before I turned in.

San Antonio was two for two on horrible shows, and we gladly left the next morning for day one of our stay in Austin, TX for South By Southwest. That night we were playing Michelle's Panache Booking showcase at the Flamingo Cantina along with all the bands we had been on tour with, as well as Health who we had played with in LA, The Apes, our good buddies Genghis Tron, and Monotonix from Israel who were one of the 21 bands we played with at The Sanctuary. Monotonix were a treat to meet and watch. They are all very friendly guys and speak excellent English, and as a band are fucking fantastic. They're a vocal/guitar/drum three piece, playing feel good rock n' roll akin to Creedence Clear Water Revival only much more dirty and distorted. The drummer plays standing up and hits good and hard, and the guitar playing is super sweet, but the singer is truly the magic to the live show. He's a stout, burly Israeli with long hair and a bristling moustache, and his antics included opening 12 packs of beer one by one and pouring them into his mouth, on the drums, on the drummer, and anywhere else liquid fits, jumping into trash cans and hopping around like it's a solo sack race, covering his face in shaving cream (pictured below), climbing on a hand railing and getting stuck in the splits, slow dancing with young girls, and sitting cross legged on the bar like a sexy lounge singer while people are trying to order drinks. They were one of the best live bands I'd seen in a while, and of course we were scheduled to play after them.

Despite being out-everythinged by Monotonix our set went well, the bar was pretty packed when we went on and I saw a lot of friendly faces in the crowd. One of my favorite parts of SxSW is that a large amount of our friends in bands around the country we never get to see are usually there, and it's like a big punk rock high reunion. Jello Biafra also came out to the show, which I was especially flattered by as he was going to be seeing us the next night anyways but made time in his busy schedule to see the set and say hi. As if I need assurance after his label has now financed two of our albums and one reissue, but it's nice to know when you're appreciated. The rest of the show went well, topped by great sets by Genghis Tron and Green Milk From the Planet Orange. Afterwards we headed over to a bridge that goes over the river where a bunch of bands were taking turns playing to a small, stoked audience via a backline plugged into a public outlet in the wall of the bridge. It was pretty cool, but I was quickly sidetracked by the Taco Cabana next to our van. We didn't stay long and opted to head back to Michelle's hotel room where nine people slept in a space designed for four.

Day two of South by Southwest was a tornado of fun and alcohol. We had three shows to play in eight hours, and although I was expecting a certain degree of misery to come of such a busy schedule, it ended up going smooth and being a blast. The first show was for a popular music website who wanted to record us live and stream it from their site. I'm omitting their name on purpose because all said and done, once the live footage went up they previewed our video with an army recruitment commercial and there is little else they could have done to completely offend me and piss me off. I rarely ascend to the soap box to holler my political views at our small, huddled audience, but there are infinite products or organizations that while lame and not necessarily what I stand for could have been adjoined to our music without causing me the slightest dismay. Trucks, batteries, tampons, Burger King, whatever. That's all stupid and while I'm sure the people that run those companies are just as crooked as all the other mongers, it doesn't quite represent the pure evil of the Bush administration and their endless war on adjectives. The United States Army is just a little too extreme, and I never want to be associated with them in any way whatsoever, especially when it comes to my music. If you do happen to find the footage, know that we had zero prior knowledge that our tunes would used to lasso gullible youngsters into hauling weapons across the desert and ending up as barbequed grunts in the streets of Baghdad, and in no way do we endorse Republicans, the Army, or music websites that sell out to them. Disclaimer aside, the actual show was a good time. A little weird, as they had us load into an empty room and perform in front of a few cameras and the camera crew (I thought it was going to a be a live stage with an audience), but they fed us some home made mediterranean food and all the free (good) beer we could stomach at 1pm, which for Akimbo is a good amount. I just wonder if the soft spoken hippy woman who prepared the food and spreads by hand knew that she was feeding bands that would ultimately be paraded right next to army commercials.
The next show was down the street at Snake Eyes Vinyl, a small record shop in Austin just across the freeway from all the crazy "official" SxSW mayhem. They had bands playing all day, alternating between the record shop and a flatbed trailer parked on the street outside. As we pulled up we got in a few quick hellos to our buddies in Genghis Tron and Kylesa before they bailed for their show that night, and also had some joyous reunions with Dave Adelson (manager of Alternative Tentacles and all around crucial dude), Jared Warren (Big Business, Melvins), Courtney Skinner (long time friend from the Bay Area), Brian 'Last Name' (The Plot, The Prayers) and happiest of all for me my old roommate Zack Carlson (Doomsday 1999, Thin the Herd Records) who I hadn't seen in many years after his move to Austin. Amidst all the high fiving and cartwheels, we squeezed in a drunkenly raging set on the flatbed which was a total blast, and I even managed to make a few faces at some of the gawking locals driving by in their Four Runners on the street behind us.
After the set we needed to get over to 6th street for our next show, but we ended up hanging out in the parking lot a little extra to extend our goodbyes and drink a few donated beers. With Dave in the van, we headed out for our last show which was the Alternative Tentacles showcase taking place in a huge, weird gumbo restaurant. I was pretty excited about this show as Jello was going to be doing some spoken word and I hadn't seen him do his thing since I was 15, and we were also being joined by long time Seattle friends Blood Hag and San Francisco's amazing Ludicra. Blood Hag's set was the familiar science fiction lesson via volume and impact, and right as they finished up my friend and boss from Neumos in Seattle (Mr. Mike Meckling) showed up to say hi and bought us a round of courage before we hit the stage. Our set went pretty well and we had a good time. Afterwards I saw a tall, skinny guy with a baseball hat at the front of the stage doing the "please come talk to me" stance, eagerly looking at us. I went over and said hello, he was all "You guys kick ass!" and I was all "Thanks!". He was wearing a shirt that said "Sex, Drugs, and Dungeons & Dragons" and I immediately complimented him on it, showing him my d20 tattoo. He was stoked and got a friend to take a picture of us together, his shirt and my tattoo. When this happened a bunch of other "press type" people started taking pictures as well, which I immediately wrote off as bored photographers on assignment taking an ironic snap-shot of D&D nerds bonding at a rock show, destined for their fridge as opposed to the organizations they represented. He left and then a friend approached me and said "That was Tom Morrello from Rage Against the Machine." I imploded. I walked over to Nat who was packing up his drums, star struck worse than the time Tad Doyle barged into our practice space to tell us "Keep on cookin' what's cookin'." and said to Nat "Tom Morrello from Rage Against the Machine just told me our band kicks ass..." We kind of just walked around all stupid for a bit. It was an awesome and totally unexpected compliment. After us was Ludicra, and it was a great show even though they didn't play Aging Ghost despite my incessant banter from the crowd. I hadn't seen them since our last show together in 2002 (I think) and they are still pummeling and brutal. Post show we started a long and fruitless quest for a party. We walked all the way down 4th to the Kemado party and were rejected at the gate, so instead of leaving we loitered and managed to say hi to Tony and Chris from Lords. It was about 4am at this point so we gave up and went back to Michelle's hotel and did the sardine thing again.

After a few quick errands we were off to Shreveport, Louisiana for a house show with The Prayers, featuring long time friends Brandon and Brian formerly of The Plot to Blow Up the Eiffel Tower. The Prayers were a great throwback to 50's and 60's pop rock, think early Beatles and The Kinks. While they were great, I don't think they'll have much luck winning over The Plot's old fan base as they are entirely devoid of anything "sass", and that crowd laps up the sass like it's free slurpee day at 7-11. The turn out was weak but we made the best of it and went to bed swimming in High Life.

Next show was at The Cellblock in Mobile, AL. We arrived to find four other bands loading into our club, prompting a chorus of 'what the fuck's as we parked the van. After some sleuthing around the bar staff it became apparent that someone had double booked the night, our show (us, The Prayers, The Mint Chicks, and a local opener) along with four other ska/punk bands also skirting the outer fringes of SxSW. This happens every year just before and after SxSW. All the outlying states become overwhelmed with bands on their way to and from Austin, and you end up playing a club on it's 12th consecutive night of hosting shows, or you find out that due to lack of communication or balls another package has been added to your show and you're looking at playing last on a 9 band show on tuesday night, and either way no one is at the show because there's a million shows in town every night and not enough audience to supply them all. It's lame enough to almost make SxSW not worth the drive. Almost. We made sure our bands got to play first, which we did, and then left the show to hang out with The Prayers and a bunch of local kids who were bent on partying really hard. They kind of invited us over to this girl's house to stay. She had already gone home because she was too drunk, but they insisted that it would be cool. They also told us she was "easy" and had apparently gotten knocked up in a porta potty at a 3-11 concert when she was 18. I'm not sure if they were doing the ultimate sleeze and trying to subversively pimp out their friend to the traveling musicians, or if they were merely trying to assure us that her inhibitions were at 'green alert' and therefore wouldn't mind if a party and ten dudes expecting sleeping space appeared in her house at 1:30 am. Despite our skepticism at the self invitation we went along with them, my trepidation at the situation marginally subsided with the purchase of a $2 robot bobble head at the 7-11 down the street. I was pretty wiped out from the antics that had ensued in Austin so I was leaning more towards a couch and chill conversation as opposed to complete raging. The end result was somewhere in the middle. At one point Brandon and I were sitting on a couch conversing when the supposedly passed out host came lumbering out of her bedroom, pants undone and obviously still hammered. She mumbled some unintelligible garbage, perhaps a greeting, and then came over to the couch right where Brandon and I were sitting. As if we weren't even there, she wedged herself right between the two of us, turned on her side and then lay down, her torso behind me and her legs on top of Brandon. We both politely excused ourselves from the couch and surrendered our vantage, at which point she rolled over and again passed out exposing what is commonly referred to as a 'plumber's crack' to the entire party from the top of her carelessly applied panties. She remained this way until a friend (girl, of course) noticed the almost bared booty and draped a blanket over her. I felt sorry for her, and regretted allowing these dudes to turn her house into a party venue with only her drunken consent as she was being escorted home. At the same time, we had a much needed roof over our heads and it was too late to find other accommodations. Aaron was in the van, so Nat and I decided to find a quiet spot and go to sleep. We woke up to her hanging out with her 3 year old daughter, at which point the guilt at barging in and making a mess of the place truly set in, even though it wasn't our idea and we had originally expressed disdain at the notion of going to a place we weren't necessarily invited. I helped her clean up a little, but it was kind of awkward. We didn't talk much. I didn't know if I needed to explain who I was, and she seemed like she was pretty embarrassed or was just keeping quiet because she didn't want to have to ask who I was. We politely thanked her and left.

Next stop was Birmingham, AL, our last show before three weeks of recording with Chris Owens in Louisville and always a fun town for us to play. We played at The Bottletree with Hella, who were no longer a two piece wank/jam band but now had a full lineup and not only vocals, but a vocalist. I liked their new stuff a lot and am eager to hear it recorded. We hung out with good friends Jason Barker and Ryan Russell and everyone at the Bottle Tree was great to us, a template for other venues to aspire to. We went back to Jason's where I killed him at foosball, and I slept well on a soft couch.

We got up and hit up some barbeque with Ryan and Jason, and then Ryan took us to a little dollar store where Aaron searched for a glittery light up polar bear wall clock and Nat bought BB pistols for $6. We drove all day to Kentucky and met Chris at the studio where we would be spending the next three weeks. The goal was to record a ten song album for Alternative Tentacles in addition to a five song concept EP, and with three weeks it should be a low stress, well paced, luxurious session. It ended up being far from that. Chris's hard drive crashed after eight days of drum tracks and we lost everything and started over. The days were long and hard, but we ended up accomplishing what we set out to do and I'm happy with the end result. Big thanks to Chris for pulling the long hours at the end, Evan and Casey for housing us the entire time, everyone at Cahoots, Dave Adelson for the grocery money, and Little Caesars for the $5 large pizzas.

The rest of the shows home were fun, but after the recording was finished I was just eager to get back and rest. We played one last show with Green Milk From the Planet Orange in Chicago, where I think they played their best set of all our shows together. We had an awesome dude date with Scott Flaster where we gorged on tremendous barbeque and then immediately ran across the street to catch a matinee showing of Pathfinder, where we learned that inside every man's heart there are two wolves fighting. Crazy! In Des Moines we were lucky enough to play one of Swing By Seven's last shows, and I will very sincerely miss that band. It's a true shame that they never took off, they were one of the most explosive bands I ever have and probably will see. We raged proper with our old buddy Phillipe that night, played a drinking game to Heavy Metal Parking Lot, listened to all the old punk records in his collection and polished 60 beers between the four of us. After that I got pretty sick and stopped drinking for the rest of the tour. Denver brought us a reunion with our friend Emily at the 3 Kings, but The Stooges were playing that night so the crowd was for the most part spoken for. The last show was Boise with a small enthusiastic crowd watching us in a garage, where one of the tenants yelled Butt Trumpet songs at us. Utterly awesome. The drive home was relaxed and smooth, and now I sit in my breakfast nook typing on a laptop in my pajamas, mission accomplished.

Apocalypto Maybe Later

2006-12-18T22:40:00.000-08:00

After a frighteningly savage joint birthday party on Friday night, Maria and I were being full-nelsoned by punctual, abrasive, very Nordic hangovers. The kind one pictures worn and haggard Viking soldiers nursing, after a fortnight of whorring and fighting and drinking like it's combat. Our tried and true salvation usually lies in splurging on a greasy breakfast, followed by whatever movie is out that doesn't immediately repulse us in a tsunami of anxiety as we deliberate over chicken fried steak and creamed to all hell coffee. Her back was a little sore from barreling through a door in a drunken fury, and we figured what better way to alleviate her achy spine than to sit in theatre seats for two and a half hours watching Lord Gibson's no doubt intellectual and thought-provoking take on the Mayan culture, their achievements, their conflicts, their italicized rise and fall from grace. We went in knowing a few things, the first and foremost being Mel Gibson is bat shit loony. The second, and surely the most prominent in my mind, is that this movie would be violent. Horrifically and unnecessarily violent, a guilt-free American substitute for watching gladiatorial combat. My hopes were high. Say what you will about Mel Gibson and the relative virtues of his productions (and I know you will), it's the one area he always delivers. And, frankly it's all I cared about.

Apocalypto, Mel Gibson's lush portrait of Mayan culture borrows from classic tales such as Predator, Conan the Barbarian, The Fugitive, and The Jungle Book, and is a belly flop from a sparklingly hyped high dive into a wading pool of Hollywood sewage. His window to an ancient civilization and it's accomplishments and relative influence on modern culture is smeared with the pudgy I-just-ate-nachos-and-wiped-my-hands-on-my-pants finger prints of an acne ridden adolescent, yearning for slow motion fight scenes with makeshift beating tools and with a little luck, a glimpse at a few naked native boobies. Granted, most Americans probably know very little about Mesoamerican civilizations and will probably be able to put some kind of twisted mockery of a history lesson together after seeing this film, but I for one learned more about the Mayans from reading Where's Waldo when I was ten. The only aspects of their life that are really focused on is that at some point they were fucked due to crop failure and disease, and their coping method was painting dudes blue and sacrificing them in uncomfortable ways to rhythmic, tribal drumming. Truly, this can only be the origin of Blue Man Group, and perhaps the one good thing that could come of this film would be our governing body cutting out the hearts of those overpaid fuckers and displaying their heads on the spire of the Luxor. The history lesson we're given of the Mayans is the equivalent of a Michael Bay movie about America that focuses solely on the enslavement of Africans from 1850-1855 titled AMERICANA. I was hoping for more focus on the culture, a grander scale if you will. A wider lens. Some Braveheart type shit. Not the case.

So history and culture is out, and we're left with a much more personal story of a shirtless man and his thong, his family and his tribe wronged by slave traders. While this isn't necessarily the plot I was hoping for, by no means does it rule out the grail I am truly after. I want blood. Lots. This is the part where I commend Passion of the Christ for delivering gallons of the stuff for my desensitized, gore-thirsty eyes to behold and revel in. In no manner do I consider Passion anything close to legitimate, important, quality, or true. Nor do I believe in Jesus as a spiritual entity, to me he is just a dude. A dude who got his ass raked in a most brutal fashion, and if a certain egomaniacal anti-Semite wants to make a movie depicting this raking of ass in a slow, graphic, and shocking manner, then by gum I will throw my money at him and eat it up like cotton candy. Add a twist of crazy, left field, "I still call the Japanese 'The Yellow Threat'" style Jew hatin' to the mix and it's goddamn entertainment, and I whole heartedly recommend watching it on mute while listening to Pig Destroyer. Gibson set the gore bar very high with this film, and I expected nothing less from his latest effort. Alas, it fell short. How short? Pretty short. The combat scenes were well choreographed, but not nearly as frantic and creative as those seen in Braveheart. There was no hurling of claymores, cleaving of hands, or dropping of bodies onto sharp wooden pikes during the melee scenes, and there sure as hell was no fucking riding of horses onto beds and crushing of faces with iron balls on chains. While we did get a somewhat cool scene of a wasp's nest being thrown at adversaries like an ornery soft ball (during what I call the Predator sequence in which the protagonist covers himself in mud and hunts his hunters, only instead of shoulder lasers and scorpion faces they have sticks and nose piercings), followed up with poison-frog-juice coated darts, all it did was conjure scenes of Macaulay Culkin's death in My Girl and the Beavis and Butthead episode where they get stoned licking toads. One of the best blood moments was the detailed and drawn out sacrifice scene, yet it left something to be desired. It didn't quite give me the chills like William Wallace getting his insides pulled out at the end of Braveheart, or when Duncan Heyward was burned at the stake in Last of the Mohicans. However, there is a very A+ jaguar mauling scene that I liken to the pig-tusk-in-the-face death in Hannibal which scored a few ecstatic squeals. And again, Gibson can't resist what I now have come to expect as a token feature in his movies... Samurai style blood fountains. We got one at the end of Passion when Jesus was stabbed on the cross (the logic that after bleeding as much as he did through that movie and then at the end there was still enough to spray like Old Faithful belongs solely to the insane) and we get another doozy when our protagonist takes off a chunk of an assailant's skull with his whoopin' stick. But, for two hours and thirty minutes of Gibson style mayhem, the over all pay off is weak sauce.

The final result of the film is a generic Hollywood action/revenge story, where a man is severely wronged by overwhelming forces and must take drastic measures of bad-assery to right the wrongs and go back to his dude like ways. You could almost cast Denzel Washington as the gravely unfortunate jungle-dweller that must exact his revenge on the Mayans with a .45 and a Jeep. The acting is great, and the costumes were great, but the over all production over-shadows the good aspects with it's ego and severe misrepresentation of Mayans as naive, brutish slave traders. Most grevous is the falling short of ridiculously brutal combat and unnecessarily bloody death. We got all that and then some in a movie about Jesus, a story told to children so young that they are intimidated by pooping in a toilet by old people that still think Alice Cooper is the anti Christ. I guess that's where the insane factor comes in. Following that logic, if a movie about Christ goes far above and beyond my peaked expectations for slippery, red, gruesomeness, then of course the movie about human sacrifice and slavery would be drastically more tame. In that case I won't hold my breath for a Mel Gibson adaptation of Goodnight Moon, but if it happens I hope we can expect a 23 minute, slow motion "goodnight armed robber with a machete feeding my own arms to the dog" torture scene.

Celebrities are bonkers. (part 1: Scientology)

2006-11-30T20:14:00.000-08:00

Celebrities are bonkers. I stand behind the statement. With fervor.

It's a thing I say out loud more than one normally exclaims against a grouped body of individuals of distinction, because I'm exposed to a bit more of their antics than I'd care. Maria is an avid reader of celebrity gossip, via blogs, magazines, and some weird seething chemical inside her brain that attracts her attention to mindless bullshit of minor consequence (I think they call it estrogen). So naturally, being her boyfriend, I am one of the first in line to get all the updates on what Britney is up to, the stupid shit Paris Hilton is wearing, how much of a loser K-Fed is, and whatever slut Madonna made out with for her latest publicity stunt. It's the same qualification that also entitles me to instant and lengthy updates on irksome situations at past and current places of employment, and gives me the honor of being allowed to take out the trash every time it's full, or just a bit stinky. The conversations will involve various stars and their grievances, and inevitably result in me professing my creed that heads this very diatribe. A winding path with many divergences, always leading to the same defiant proclamation uttered in dismissive yet fascinated bafflement. It usually goes like this:

Her: Jon! Britney Spears was hanging out with some gross weirdo last night!
Me: ...
Her: Jon!
Me: You mean that K-Fudge... dude?
Her: It's K-FED! And no, they broke up. A new guy. He's gross.
Me: Shit. That's a bummer.
Her: I know! Look, here's a picture.
Me: (Not looking) Wow he's pretty gross looking.
Her: I know! He's totally gross! I feel sorry for her. Also, Posh Spice said no to the Spice Girls reunion. Can you believe it?
Me: Posh Spice was the hot one right?
Her: Not anymore! She got all this plastic surgery! Look at her!
Me: (Looking) Oh my god.
Her: She looks like melted plastic!
Me: How can anyone think that looks good? How can anyone give a doctor that much money to make you look like a life-sized Bratz doll?
Her: Ha! Look at her forehead!
Me: Celebrities are bonkers.

I don't necessarily mean it as a blanket rule that if one is to be deemed a "celebrity" in whichever caliber of stardom they have succeeded in, they are then "bonkers". No. It's not an X = Y situation. There are plenty of "celebrities" that I respect and would consider completely capable of having a conversation that doesn't involve the hardships of having a shitfuck load of money and/or how much it sucks being famous enough to have magazines argue over who gets the rights to print pictures of you sneezing. I'm sure that's lame, but come on. Buy a house. I'll be in the office kitchen fussing over another lunch of complementary string cheese and pretzels. If I'm lucky Dave might not want all of his burrito. Truly, there are a good amount of fame-enhanced individuals that aren't necessarily surfing the same wave of drugs and hysteria as Anna Nicole Smith or Courtney Love. The John Stewarts, the Matt Groenings, the Will Farrells, they all seem pretty even keeled to me. I'd even go as far as saying some of the ultra huge celebrities like Tom Hanks and Dr. Dre that are dangerously within the realm of massive ego explosion keep their shit pretty chill. But then again, I don't know them. For all I know those two arm wrestle bears covered in butter on giant piles of precious gems. All I can do is ascertain.

Now that I've given a somewhat lengthy disclaimer, I can get into the meat. The proof that sits so obviously in front of us all, like a steaming turd garnishing a plate of dinner rolls, that celebrities are indeed fucking bonkers. I'm not quite sure exactly what happens in the psyche, but somewhere, somehow, something goes wrong. I'd like to be able to finger a certain religion that is becoming very popular amongst Hollywood notables as the definitive culprit, but alas, Mel Gibson throws that theory completely out of his anti semitic window. Nevertheless, said religion/cult can be credited as the "gateway to loony shit" for many of the people this post targets. Allow me to indulge.

Scientology is the fruit of one man's labor, starting roughly in 1952 as an outlandish self help philosophy and extending to it's modern day culmination of Chef getting killed on South Park. The man I speak of is American Science Fiction author L. Ron Hubbard, and he is completely and utterly bat shit crazy. However I suspect he's actually a brilliant, manipulative, businessman who targeted successful artists and their displacement with reality as a source of income, and if this is true he should be celebrated as a hero, not a messiah. The other day I took the time read the entire Wikipedia page on Scientology, which is a great read if you have the time (it inspired this post). From a strictly neutral standpoint I have come to the conclusion: "Dem fuckers is crazy". I mean, like most people I knew Scientology was a bit ridiculous, that it dealt with spiritual connections with aliens, that breast feeding babies was not encouraged, and that it considers reincarnation and immortality factual events and places heavy emphasis on events that happened in past lives. Pretty nuts, but it's on the level with circumcision, Heaven and Hell, and the fucking rapture (I still can't get over that one), which are all central elements of established and widely followed religions today. It all stems from a weird (and ultimately primal) human tendency to explain things we witness but don't necessarily fully understand (ie: birth, death, weather, gay marriage) by making up fairy tails and using them as an excuse to rape and destroy those who don't agree. The big difference that I see between Scientology and more accepted and practiced organized religion is the origins and the justification of practice in the face of adversity.

The origins of current religions are very old, and were established when human interaction in the world was very different than it is now. I'll say now that I'm a staunch and bitter atheist bubbling over with cynicism and doubt, but I can understand the need for people to have some kind of explanation for life that goes beyond science. If the only concept of thunder I had was that "God is pissed", and then some dude in a fancy red cape came around and started telling me he saw Jesus cure leprosy with his touch, I'd probably be the first to spit on the corpse of my neighbor's daughter who had just burned for charges of witchery. Of course it makes sense, that dude's cape is fucking nice. The good shit. But there are no such capes shrouding the mystery of L. Ron Hubbard's pay to play pyramid scheme. No, he was not a humble messiah from ages past that lived a life we can merely speculate over, rather he was a science fiction author. I'll say it again. Science fiction author. As in, he was paid to write stories about space ships and aliens. If one were to read L. Ron Hubbard's Wikipedia page, one would come across a number of allegations that call his morality into question, which would then lead one to the conclusion that he is an alleged bastard. An alleged bastard that started a religion that charges money of it's followers for 'enlightenment', and it is obvious that this is the get rich quick scheme of a manipulative con-man... that wrote fantasy stories about aliens and space ships.

When Christianity is called into question, regardless of how critical or fact ridden the opposing argument is, the defense always reverts to a simple, child-like yet extremely effective rebuttal. Faith. Examples follow:

There is no physical proof that God exists, and Jesus was just a dude with a few good ideas.
I believe God exists and that Jesus is our savior.

The fence is green.
I have faith that although this fence does indeed appear to be green, when I die it will be red.

You don't actually have an "argument", you're just telling me about stuff you believe.
My faith in my faith will get me into Heaven. I don't have to make sense in Heaven. In Heaven we call those kinds of ideas "sin".

And so on... So it's ludicrous, but impossible to argue against because you can't tell someone what they believe. If you could, the republicans would have figured it out a long time ago and we'd all be in factories branding platinum oil piping for 2 pesos an hour. It is a logic that will forever justify their beliefs and the more it is argued against, the more they rally that their faith is being tested and that they must hold true. The only way that argument is shaken is if the individual questions it themselves. Scientology, however, has no such fortifications. Their logical arguments against criticism are like listening to a 6 year old interpret the future. First of all, when the church's recommended practice of not breast feeding infants and instead supplying them with a "Barley Formula" (barley water, homogenized milk, corn syrup/honey <--- seriously?!?!) was first called out by nutritionists, Hubbard's official response was "I picked it up in Roman days." See the quotes? He said that. He was serious.
Let me lay this out:
Nutritionist: This "Barley Formula" has no nutritional value to a growing human and honey has been known to cause infant botulism if given to babies under 12 months. Why do you recommend this as a substitute for a mother's breast milk?
Hubbard: It's a recipe I picked up in a past life in ancient Rome. If it worked then, it'll work now.
Another choice rebuttal comes from Scientology's compatibility with other religions. While at entry level awareness church members are told that Scientology is very compatible with other religions (obviously to appear more inviting), it has been alleged that Hubbard's higher level teachings state that (again, quotes here--->) "Jesus had never existed, but was implanted in humanity's collective memory by Xenu 75 million years ago, and that Christianity was an "entheta [evil] operation" mounted by beings called Targs. (Hubbard, "Electropsychometric Scouting: Battle of the Universes", April 1952)." The logic here is beyond absurd, it's insulting. This is like claiming that unicorns not magical horned horses, but are actually flying Big Foots in disguise.

OK, so all I've really done here is illuminate the obvious: Scientology makes about as much sense as voting Ren /Stimpy in '08. Time to bring it around. Time to rip the lid off of it.

People believe it! People think it's true, that it's reality. Did Hubbard believe it? Really believe it? I doubt it. But other people, educated people with college degrees that live in cities around other people with college degrees actually believe it. Jerry fucking Maguire BELIEVES that 75 million years ago an intergalactic alien ruler named Xenu brought billions of aliens to Earth in a DC-8 jet plane, stacked them around a volcano, and then blew them up with hydrogen bombs. John Travolta subscribes to a religion that uses a pyramid scheme of monetary payment for enlightenment, that directly states that higher levels of awareness are taught by invite only and are distributed based on individual "contributions" to the church. Isaac Hayes sincerely believes that the events leading up to World War II are caused by alien soul clusters that attach themselves to living humans. Kirstie Alley and Beck agree with teachings that have "documented" such past life experiences as "being run over by a Martian bishop driving a steamroller", and "being transformed into an intergalactic walrus that perished after falling out of a flying saucer." It's seriously wacked, and it's even becoming trendy in Hollywood to join up and start writing checks. My only comment: Celebrities are bonkers.

Europe Tour bloggery

2006-10-19T14:10:00.000-07:00

We started as many international trips start. Up at 4am, mercilessly tired from a short and anxious sleep yet giddy in anticipation for the coming journey. Actually, Aaron hadn't slept. Being the much more adept and potent "twenty something" in the band, he had just stayed up and partied all night, immediately evident from the aura of liquor fumes radiating from his persona. It was to be the Akimbo's third time touring Europe, Nat's fourth trip, and Aaron's first.

Our shuttle dropped us off at Sea-Tac and we had a long, boring wait through all the lines and security. Always a cruel bummer at such an early hour, but a fucking cake walk compared to our last European jaunt in which our drug addled guitar-player-at-the-time was on enough weed and muscle relaxers to sedate an entire audience at a Blood Brothers show and required 'baby sitting' in a manner that could probably have gotten Nat and I instantly hired at a job tending to mentally defficient cattle. If such a thing exists. Oh wait, yeah, it's called "Golf Caddie". One connection and 15 hours of pretending it's possible to sleep sitting inside a washing machine later, we were spat out at Schipol airport in Amsterdam around 8:15am local time. We were to meet up with the band Young Widows who would be sharing the tour with us, and wait for our driver Martin to pick us up. Evan (Young Widows' guitar player) was waiting for us just outside customs, gave me a warm welcome and we joined the rest of the dudes outside in the crisp morning air. Martin arrived 45 minutes late, we packed up, and headed to Utrecht which is a small college town 45 minutes away from Amsterdam and where we'd play the first show.

The venue is called ACU, we played there the year before with The Assailant, and it's a cool little punk bar with a show space in the back. Unlike last year, we didn't partake of the legal drugs that the Dutch have to offer after a particularly nasty encounter with "space cake" which left me vomiting in a corn field and stoned for 3 days. Literally. No, this time we chose "sleep deprivation" as our drug of choice and did our best to make it through the evening in an alert manner. The show wasn't particularly well attended, but we had fun, and upon returning to our hosts apartment for a rock solid evening of sleep, we were delighted to see the name plaque on his neighboring apartment read "J.J. Van Boom". Who is J.J. Van Boom? We don't know, and never will know. All we can ascertain is that he is totally awesome by virtue of his title alone.

Next day was a day off. We went to Frankfurt and met Sammy, the guy who runs Monkey Drive in Europe and screen printed all of the Akimbo and Young Widows merch for the tour. (Bands take note: Sammy did an incredible job and we highly recommend having your shirts printed with him for a European tour. Get in touch if you need contact information.) Sammy and his friend (totally going to burn in hell for forgetting his name already) took us under their wing for a hot night in Frankfurt. Most notable was the curry wurst we had to kick off the evening. Nat, Aaron and I ordered curry wurst at a "spicy" level of 3 (out of 7). The shit was a goddamn inferno of pain, like opening your mouth to the door way of hell, satan's bitches peeing all over your tongue. It was a conversation killer. We ate in silence after the first bite, the only noise the occasional snurf of liquified muccous being sucked back into our noses. Halfway through his meal, Aaron put down his fork. We looked up and he was sweating like a bratwurst on a
hot grill. "I'm done." he said. Game over. The rest of the night was spent bar hopping with our hosts. Jet lag was still ripe, and much to the shagrin of our party-hungry hosts our crew only lasted a few hours. As soon as we got back to the screen printing shop I found a spot on the hard-as-all-fuck-floor in the office and passed the fuck out, a pile of unsold Lords hoodies my pillow for the night.

Lucky us, next show would be in Belgium with our buddies Torche and Baroness, simultaneously touring Europe. Not much to say out of the ordinary. Great show, both bands tore it up and we had a great time hanging out with them. Torche had a substitute drummer, as Rick was at home with a belly button infection or some stupid shit like that. The new dude did a good job filling Rick's sizeable presence in that band, and while the songs were definitely solid it was a bit of a bummer not being able to see Rick leaping off his throne before all the big hits. The beer was wonderful, so wonderful it possessed Nat into thinking he was cool to pull the van up the driveway after about 14 of them. I walked outside and there's Nat trying to reverse a 20 foot long van around a tiny corner and up a slanted driveway, soppy hair hanging out the window, wondering why the van keeps stalling. Perhaps it was the keg of Belgian beer controlling his feet. Just spit-ballin'. There was only so much drinking we could take being early in the tour, and beds were inevitably fell upon.

Up in the morning and off to Paris. Martin informed us that our show was going to be on a boat. Clearly, we didn't really know what to expect. The only "show on a boat" I know about is when bands like Quiet Riot play the Emerald Queen Casino. We arrived and saw a decent sized, red boat docked in a river at the address for the show. It kinda looked like a cross between a tug boat and the vessel in the original King Kong, but painted red, and no 'Charlie' the Chinese chef anywhere in sight. We were blown away when we walked inside. It had been completely overhauled to act as a full on concert venue, including multiple bars, a stage, lights, good PA, the whole works. It was pretty surreal. I was a bit nervous about how the show would be. Our last show in Paris was in a tiny room/cellar underneath a bar downtown. Only 20 people were there, but the place went crazy and it was easily the most fun I've ever had in the band, arguably the best Akimbo show since we started playing. I wasn't sure if that energy and reception from the crowd was going to carry over to this bigger, nicer place, and I was also unsure about enough people being there to fill up the room. Once the doors opened people started pooring in. It was incredible. We were selling merch before, during, and after our set, and the crowd would roar with us between songs. It wasn't as chaotic and intimate as the first Paris show in the cellar, but it was one of the best shows of the tour and I couldn't get over how awesome it was to have over 100 people at a show in a town where we drew 20 a year earlier.

Me in front of the boat, totally amped.

Inside the boat.

After the show we went to a tiny apartment where all seven of us were to sleep. We partied in a manner fit for dudes in Paris, met some great locals, Aaron locked himself in the bathroom with a girl, and I slept on the kitchen floor. Finally it felt like we were on tour.

Montagu, France was our next destination. Montagu is a tiny French village, I think we were told it had a population of around 700 people. Luckily, it's in the middle of a whole bunch of other tiny French villages, and word on the street was that people were going to be driving to see the show since bands rarely came through the area, and we would be a break in their everyday lives of squishing grapes for wine, eating cheese, and walking cows in public streets (or whatever rural Frenchmen do when they're not clubbing the discos in Paris). We played a tiny pub just off the main street, which was maybe the length of two American city blocks. The promoter met us early at the club and took us to his freakin' mansion up the street, where we were shown to our rooms (yeah, plural, as in we each had our own room) and then fed a luxurious 4 course meal that would easily go for about $30 a plate at any American restaurant, only the cooks wouldn't be listening to Neurosis while they served us. We headed back to the pub and to our surprise it was packed with people. The show was very fun, merch flew, and the bar tender/owner kept the beer flowing like we were gods. We headed back to the mansion afterwards, a joint was passed around which is always the end of the night for me, and I slept like a wee babe, the only disturbance being a demon cat screaming like the dickens well after the party had subsided.

The next two days were in Spain, and while very fun, weren't the best shows of tour attendance wise. Aaron did his damnedest to communicate with the locals, and for his efforts received a hat. One of the shows was in a club that was trying to pull off an authentic Irish pub experience. They pretty much had it nailed down, from the swords on the wall, the Guinness signs everywhere, the giant rhino head on the wall, and the over-all decor of the place. "Ahh, lookee here laddy! We've left Spain and gone tchroo a mageec pahrtahl straight ta' Dooblin! Bahr tender, get me yer finest pint!" NO! There was one area where they failed, utterly and unforgiveably, and it totally blew the smoke screen from your eyes. Their version of pub food was a grilled cheese wonderbread sandwich with fries so undersalted and undercooked they were almost crunchy, "vegetarian" sandwiches stuffed with tuna fish, and not-nearly-greasy-enough burgers served on dry bread buns. "Ahhh sheet lad. Tarns out we aint in Ireland at all. We're in soddin' Spain. I'll have the octopus tapas."

The trip through Spain was entirely worth it though. Great people, lots of fun, and we got to see Portugal which was a treat. On the way back north we stopped at a bone chapel, which is basically a room in a church with walls made out of human bones. It was totally metal, and while we acted with the utmost respect for the dead whilst inside, I promise you dear readers that I was shredding scorching solos over double kick madness in my head the entire time. The best Spanish show was easily Zaragoza at a cool little place that Young Widows' old band Breather Resist had played on their last tour in Europe. Lots of people and big beers. Big beers, surprisingly, were somehwat rare on this tour.

First show back in France was in Lyon, on another boat called Sonic. Just like the last boat show, this one was a rager. We were starting learn that France is definitely a country where Akimbo is welcome. Again the place was pretty packed, and this time it got so hot in there we all sweat at least a pound or two. If you run over to our myspace, a kind French person posted a picture of Nat after the set on our comments page. It's the one where he' looks like he's just been plucked from a river and dropped in the corner. If you look at his pants, you will notice the only dry spots are the edges of the seams. Richard Simmons can suck a lemon.

Rouen was the next stop, triumphantly bringing us back to Le Brooklyn Cafe. I still can't pronounce "Rouen" the proper way, even after two tours of obsessing over it, it pretty much comes out like "wgghhhggoohhh". Much humor. The name of the bar cracks Martin up, and as a result he can't stop saying it with the thickest French accent possible. It sounds like "leay Brrgrhhggrghookleen Cafeh". Also hillarious. Our good pal Gildas set up the show again, and he made us a giant vat of his famous hummous, which the French pronounce "Ooh-Moos". Again, funny. Unfortunately, the bar was having problems with a neighbor calling the police during shows, and as our show was on a week night we had to keep the amps really low. Performing with quiet amps is always a huge bummer. It kind of feels like you're doing some boring mock puppet show of your normal set, sans hand jammed up your ass. Nevertheless, reception was as warm as the other French shows and we had a great time. Post rock, we were playing kicker in the back. This Frenchman came up to the table wearing a brand new Akimbo shirt, watches us play for a bit, and then affter a game looks at me and says "Your bass playing is very good, but your foot ball is shit." I'm like Marty McFly when it comes to kicker, if you call me chicken then we will start fighting, I can't control it. Naturally, I invited him to play, and was crushed with little effort.

After we drank all the band beer, I bought Akimbo a round from the bartender, who in his supreme awesomeness refused to charge me. Aaron was missing, as the lovely lady he had shacked up with in the bathroom in Paris had come to the show and they were most likely having a picnic in a park, holding hands, and talking about the pleasantries of poetry, finely roasted duck, and Mozart. The only other drinker in the group was Geof, drummer supreme of Young Widows, so he got Aaron's beer by default. We toasted and finished. I was feeling good, happy to be on tour with such awesome people and getting such a warm welcome back to a place so far from home. I thought whiskey shots would be appropriate. I asked the bartender for two shots, one for Geof and one for myself. Nat had been assimilated into a conversation of broken English with a Frenchman, a very common occurence as foreigners almost make it a mission to practice their English on you until you've exhausted every possible topic of conversation and are left awkwardly looking around, with no real graceful way to end it, hoping for someone to call you over to watch the merch table or help load gear, so he was out of action. The bartender pulled two tall, thin glasses down and before we could interject with "Sir?!?!? We just wanted a shot, not a thermos." he poured us two of the most massive "shots" of Jim Beam I've ever seen outside of a bottle. Fuck. Assuming it'd be rude to not take them (especially since again they had come free of charge (god bless the French)), we devised the plan of chasing sips with our second beer (technically our second tap beer, probably our 12th actual beer) until it was down to a normal shot size, and then commense in the manner we had originally set out. Needless to say, the rest of my night was spent stupefied, thoroughly stomping my plans to watch horror movies with Gildas all night. My only strong memory of the night was stumbling into Gildas's house and seeing their dog which we later dubbed "Splinter" after the rat in the Ninja Turtles movie, reaching down to pet the dog and being instantly repulsed by a massive (seriously, fucking massive) cancerous lump on it's side. Petting it was like carressing a blanket with a baseball sewn into the fabric. All I could say was "Gross... I'm going to bed."

We had a day off and drove to Caen, which is right on the western border of France. We met up with the benevolent Nico, who in addition to putting on our show and having a hot dinner ready for us on arrival also heads up Paranoid Records, the label that released City of the Stars on vinyl for the tour. He had the Band of Brothers DVD set which we immediately started watching. Half way through the second episode, Martin made it known we were right in the area where all that took place, and by "all that" I mean the allied forces storming the beaches of Normandy against the Nazi forces. Plans were quickly made to put on our tourist pants and go see the historical sights, since the following day we didn't have to be at the club until about 7:00.

There aren't many words available to truly describe the feeling of seeing those places. 'Heavy' is one. It's very introspective, and more often than not you find yourself walking alone and not speaking to anyone, just soaking in the reality of the events that happened where you stand, the events that caused those events and so on. It's different when it's not on TV or in a history book; when you're standing 100 yards away from the beach where hundreds of humans ran straight at a machine gun's trajectory on purpose; when you're alone in a sea of white crosses, many without names; when you sit on top of battery housing a cannon that shot up to 12 miles at boats that may have held your neighbor's or co-worker's grandfather; when you exist in a place where had thousands not met violent deaths the world could be a very different place. I left feeling stupid and insignificant, my prime concerns at the time being playing punk rock to pockets of people and whether or not our merch we needed was going to be delivered in the mail the following day.

Veterans memorial on Omaha Beach (left), and a machine gun bunker overlooking a beach (right).

The Caen show was fun, as was the foosball before and after. Nico treated us well and we attacked the food in his kitchen after then show. Next morning was spent waiting for records to be delivered to his house so we could take off
to the next show in France. There had been a huge ordeal in getting copies of the new album and it looked like we were finallly about to get our supplies. A package arrived, but it was only the CDs, the vinyl was still missing. Discouraged, we left. The next few shows were good, including a rendesvouz with more American touring bands by the names of Japanther and The Good Good in a small town called Esslingen. We played a poorly attended show in Austria, where I entertained myself by demanding strobe lights and a fog machine for the encore, and finishing by saying "Thanks, we're Breather Resist" which was only funny to three people.

After Austria it was the Czech Republic, which was the biggest surprise of the tour. The first show in Brno (I dare you to pronounce that correctly. "Brno" is actually Czech for "we don't give a fuck about phonetics.") was at a place called "The Yacht Club", a really cool punk club. Tons of people showed up, including our old friend Blair who used to live in Seattle and played in The November Group, and was now living and teaching English and politics in Brno. After the show a Czech man brought me a goblet of beer and I kissed him on the head.

The next day we went to Prague. On the way we stopped at another bone chapel. This one with actual decorations made of human bones, including a giant chandalier containing at least one of every bone in the human body and a twelve foot high coat of arms. Very metal, and I curse myself for not taking band photos there. Then it was off to Prague, one of the only major cities that was undamaged during World War II. I swear that place is fucking magic. It really made me feel like I was a kid again. It's just as beautiful as your average European city, your Paris's, your Barcelonas, but it's HUGE. All the buildings and statues are enormous, I felt like a young immigrant walking through Times Square for the first time. We walked for miles around the city, starting at the train station and heading all the way to the top of this huge hill to see the palace and cathedral that overlook the whole city. Then it was off to the venue, where even more people showed up than in Brno. The crowd was awesome, and we were overwhelmed at the turnout of both Czech shows as the band had never played in either place ever before.

Back to Germany, and not just Germany, Wurzberg! We played Immerhin, a super rad punk club where we had our last show of tour the year before with The Asssailant, and where the following morning the staff told us they had never had a band that drank as much as us. I don't care how they remember us, so long as we leave some kind of mark. This show wasn't quite as well attended as the last one, most likely due to it being a Monday, but it was still fun and as always, our host Marko was half the reason. We crashed at his place again, where he lives with two horrifying companions, a tarantula and a millipede (shudder), and after a quick puff of the green I was immediately out, as usual.

The rest of tour went by pretty quickly and was somthing of a blur. It seemed the best shows were behind us and we were just riding out the rest of the trip. The show in Berlin was the only one that really stood out as a good one. We interviewed with a guy who does an internet fan site type thing. It was pretty funny, as he had made a lot of assumptions about our band based on the music and lyrics, and for the most part was way off. First of all, he had supposed "Akimbo" was a reference to the shooting style in first person shooter videogames in which the player uses two guns at once, and was pretty bummed to hear that it was just a word that Nat happened upon while writing a paper and was the only thing we could agree on that nobody hated. He also thought our song "Ground Control to Major Bummer" was a reference to an obscure comic book character named Major Bummer, and was somewhat mortified to hear that no, it was just a half witted play on words stemming from boredom on tour. Reading this in type, it's not as funny as the interview, so perhaps I can convey the childlike disappointment we saw in his eyes with each let down (there was more than just the ones above). It was as if he had peeked at his Christmas presents a week early only to find out they were being donated to the poor kid down the street, until by the end he kind of just gave up and moped out of the room, utterly disappointed.

In the last stretch we also played a show in Copenhagen at this huge, dirty, punk squat that is somewhat established as a huge, dirty, punk squat. Martin informed us that a few years earlier they were having their annual crust fest thing, and some junkie crust punk girl OD'd in the band sleping room, passing out under one of the beds. The next morning everyone assumed she was sleeping and took off without checking on her. The body was up there for two weeks in the hot summer, and it was a performing band that found her as they were climbing the stairs to sleep after a show. I've seen some ridiculously gross shit staying in punk houses and squats over the years, but I can't imagine what it would be like to find a body. I would probably barf, and then cry, and then tell everyone I personally delivered the body to the morgue.

The last show was in Bonn, where Martin grew up. The show was great. A bunch of people crowded into a small bar, and a great last show after a string of less than exciting turn outs. We had a triumphant last meal at the burger joint next door (we told the cook she was a goddess), and after staying up until 3:30, Martin drove us back to the airport, one more notch in the tour belt. It was one of the best tours the band has done so far, and it was a treat to share it with all the guys in Young Widows, and of course Martin.

Jon returns to an evil place...

2006-08-24T12:55:00.000-07:00

It's been about four years since I even stepped into one of those vile places, those epicenters of suffering and agony, of sweat and tears. They are temples of self-inflicted torture where man, king of the earth and master of all beasts, becomes hamster. A place where we humans, capable in our infinite knowledge of the sciences have traveled through the air and space, crafted the arts, and masterminded technology like telephones, computers, gameboys, automobiles, and pizza, willingly subject ourselves to the rigors of slavery. Labor without purpose. We even pay for it. $33.99 a month, for 24/7 unlimited access to agony.

Yes, after over four years of desk jobs, playing videogames, watching movies, going to movies, eating, sleeping and engaging in other activities that will ultimately bring me one step closer to a fern on the evolutionary ladder, Maria and I joined a gym. The 24 Hour Fitness on Denny way. If you go to their front door you can probably still see the scratch marks on the wall where I desperately tried to cling to liberty as Maria dragged me in by my feet. Actually, that's a lie. I used to be a huge fan of "das gym" and would go regularly while in college. I remember Maria seeing an old picture of me in my fitter days, chirping in exclamation, and then looking up at me with a look of "what happened?" Beer, Maria. Beer happened. Beer and the acknowledgement that I hate physical activity that doesn't involve a loud instrument or an orgasm.

But we all know that the gym has its merits... Hot bod, washboard abs, gay friends, and cable! It just takes time and discipline, but with enough of that stuff I could eventually get back in shape, and maybe one day become a hulking neck with legs. Maria and I are already trying to master-mind ways to transform our slovenly nature into motivation to get into the gym. My first opus came as our host, Steve, was showing us the cardio machines, various devices that one places themselves upon which then simulates some kind of horribly embarrassing physical activity that most are loathe to actually do in public, hence the need for a gym. Why they place those things right in front of the windows for all of commuting Seattle to gawk at your jiggling sides and tomato red face is completely beyond me. If it was my choice the treadmills and the stair masters would all be housed in some kind of sensory deprivation cave with zero light, and all the users would be forced to wear virtual reality goggles displaying the CGI scenes from The Lawnmower Man. Instead they are lined up like socks in Mark Summers' underwear drawer, facing the corner of Denny and Yesler in full view via the floor to ceiling windows. Maybe it's reverse psychology. These sweaty, red faced, lumps of flesh in spandex are beautiful. You are a hag. Maybe it's the same idea as public execution, that people have an inert need to see others punished, a macabre fascination with seeing something horrible happen to another living thing. Regardless of the twisted logic that inspired this sadistic placement of exercise equipment, it was in this atrium of pain that I had my first "eureka!" about how to get myself motivated to actually do something for my health.

A while back, Maria and I cancelled cable, a decision that definitely made us more financially sound, but also made us painfully aware of our own boredom. I've never been a TV junkie by any means, but there were a few shows I got pretty fond of during our short sprint with more channels than I could ever hope to truly appreciate. Well, they have TV in front of all the cardio machines. I now have a sprawling gateway back into the land of prime time, and while Best of the 80's won't be quite the same whilst perched atop a motionless bike, straining to hear Gilbert Godfried's nasal banter over my own deep panting, Amazing Race truly will be amazing as I run in pace with the contestants. Only instead of a million dollars, I will be getting a side ache. However, I can now rest in the comfort of knowing that after Shark Week is over I will be fit enough to run a marathon. Twice.

Another lure is getting back into weight lifting, which I was actually pretty fond of back in the day. When I started to fall off the wagon years ago, I would still try and get back into the rhythm of working out a feeble few times. These are bad memories. Memories of trying to move the weight I had been at a month previous, being surprised to find out that it wasn't too bad, and then waking up the next day unable to move. It's a humbling pain. It hurts to scratch your ass, to click your mouse, to rub the tears from your eyes. You learn to both appreciate and despise the intricate mechanism that is the human muscular system. I'm glad that this time I will have these memories of discomfort as hindsight, hopefully allowing me to pace myself and take it easy the first few visits. However, remembering the pain of not lifting weights for a month and then diving back into the deep end, I am fully afraid of what it may be like after four years of inactivity. My guess would be crippling.

24 Hour Fitness actually has a pool, and pretty nice equipment. The last gym I frequented on a regular basis was the Bellevue YMCA, which pretty much attracted the dregs of the suburbs and the elderly. The smell of this building was unreal. It was like all the old people were constantly peeing in their sweat pants while exercising and the staff was pumping bubble gum through the vents to cover it up. It wasn't the Hollywood vision of an exercise club: fit people staying fit, naked babes in the shower room (remember Repossessed?!?!), smoothie bars and energetic sexually charged personal trainers spotting your bench. No. It was elderly men with testicles down to their knees in the locker rooms. It was non-English speaking locals calling you out at the basketball court. It was immensely obese women in stretch shorts holding back the tears while doing crunches. It was the only gym in Bellevue with a $25 monthly membership fee. I very specifically remember an inhumanly large Russian man who was an exotic beast in the weight room. He was older with gray hair, a bristling moustache, fingerless gloves, and a massive leather support belt for his back. He would dress in matching colored sweat pants and sweat shirts, which would soak through as he worked out, bellowing in his native Russian tongue and startling the timid gym members as he hefted enormous amounts of weight like atlas heaving the earth. Truly a sight to behold, and ultimately emasculating as you took your turn on the tricep machine changing the weight from 180 to 70.

Apparently I've graduated, or I guess gyms are cheaper these days. 24 Hour Fitness seems to be much nicer than the YMCA of my youth. It definitely has a gym smell, but it's nowhere near the salty-sweet pungency of a sick bay that I was expecting. Instead of manic foreigners and old bed wetters in the weight room, there's the typical smattering of what one should expect from a centrally located facility smack in the middle of urban Seattle. 20 somethings, 30 somethings, office workers, gays, tattooed hipsters, and worst of all the typical run of the mill fitness geeks. The dudes with tribal tattoos, head bands, tank tops, fanny packs, and muscles, talking loudly over the noise of the gym about sports and boisterously asking if you need a spot for your military press. However, I must extend a gracious and venerable thank you to Steve Jobs, because every single one of those fuckers has an ipod now, making awkward weight room talk near obsolete. I'll be sure to crank the ABBA in my head phones so it is audible within my proximity, a warning to over friendly muscle heads who want to shoot the shit about stretches and deltoids that I'm not a talker. I prefer to endure my pain in the silence of loud headphones. That way I won't drop the weights on my laughing face when I accidentally poot mid bench press.

Tour Blog #5 (7/28 - 8/10)

2006-08-15T00:44:00.000-07:00

Dude Fest was one of the best shows so far. The turnout wasn't as ample as we had hoped, but there was enough people for a good audience and they seemed pretty happy to be there. We came in right as Young Widows was setting up and I watched their set with glee, only taking a short break to skateboard in Sweet Cobra's van. Yes. Skateboard in Sweet Cobra's van. Sweet Cobra played next and were punishing as usual. We did our thing and had a blast in the process, rocked some faces and blew some minds. I watched a few songs of The Dream Is Dead, and then was pried from their majesty by Mat, Grumpy and Aaron who were heading over to the bar down the street which prominently displayed a sign in the entrance claiming NO WEAPONS were allowed, a rule we scofflawed, because the might of our deadly riffs is enough for national alarm. After waging war on a few Millers, we went back to the show in time to see Coliseum claim their headlining spot at the show with all the force of an alpha male gorilla. I hadn't seen them with their new drummer yet. It was a sweet treat. The best drummers are the ones that make you yell out loud in awe. I yelled and yelled. We drove back to Louisville after the show with Young Widows and Coliseum, met up with Chris Owens and hit a bar before retiring.

Next day we got up and talked Europe logistics with Evan over a massive breakfast. We'll be touring Europe for 4 weeks with Young Widows in September/October. After gorging, it was over to Chris's recording studio (which was just as messy as a tour van) across the street from our show that night, and where we're currently planning on doing some recording next year. Unbeknownst to us, the show started a bit early and right when I was planning on heading back over to see the opening band, a mildly irked Evan came in and half politely, half sarcastically asked us if we were going to be performing that night. We ran over, set up, and rocked the shit. Stan and Chris definitely poured beer on me, and I definitely spit water in Stan's face. Young Widows and Coliseum played again, and I snatched a video of Coliseum playing a song. Note the beyond ridiculous drumming. After the show we drank beers in the studio and played around a bit with some recording. The results were an embarrassing sloppy mess that was recorded forever, and will probably be considered by many as the best material we've ever carved out in a studio. Hours later, after realizing that the only thing that could come of more recording was endless embarrassment and the possibility of black mail, we went out again to the bar where Tony works and gawked at a short, drunk woman playing pool who had some of the most ridiculously enormous fake breasts I have ever witnessed. They weren't the biggest I've seen per se, but in proportion to the rest of her stature one had to wonder what the fuck she was thinking. It was like she had to keep walking or else fall flat on her face with the weight of such monstrous boobies. Aaron made the astute observation that she must live like a shark, constantly moving, in fear of being dragged to the ground under the hulking weight of her obtrusive mammaries.

Next day was off to Cincinnati, the beginning of a four day stretch through Ohio that we would come to call "morale exploder", or "fun stabber". The show was at an arts warehouse, and more people came from Dayton with the opening band than actually came from Cincinnati itself. There were some power issues, we blew two fuses in succession and almost called it quits 3 songs into the set. It got sorted out after an awkward break and we finished up. A girl at the show had a thrift store shirt with a great white shark on it, mouth agape. It looked big enough to fit me and I offered to pay her $50 for it. She must have realized the majesty of such a garment, and did not budge. It occurred to me that perhaps she thought I was being a creepy, hairy, molester and was trying to get her to take her shirt off (not the case!), and so I then offered to pay her up front and then pick up the shirt the next day when she had ample time to change into anything else besides that damn shirt. Alas, I was denied again. We concluded Cincinnati with a visit to White Castle, spurred mostly by Aaron's curiosity about "flavor explosions" described in Harold and Kumar go to White Castle. I sincerely hope it's the last time he takes advice from "stoned" actors in big budget advertisements dressed up as Hollywood comedies, because the only type of "explosions" we experienced were well after the meal was over. We left the show and went with our new buddies in the first band back to Dayton to play monopoly in an apartment hotter than hot. It was a second floor apartment, and I liken climbing the stairs up from the heat of the summer night and into the baffling incindiary haze of that room to riding the Mr. Toad ride on a hot day at Disney Land, only the ride stops in the "hell" room, roasting you in your little cart. Nevertheless, we persevered and kept ourselves cool with cold beers and a frantic game of monopoly that lasted until 6:15 am. Monopoly can be a dangerous thing. I have never witnessed a "game" that so quickly turns it's participants into raging assholes and conniving weasels. I am no exception to that observation, exhausting great measures attempting to intercept property trades and slyly offering trades of my own in the heat of rent exchanges. Nat was able to secure some serious property via trades that involved talked-up sums of cash and cigarrettes from one of the players, a smoker who had nothing to smoke. His nicotine addiction was too fierce to heed my warnings about never trusting jews, and Nat scored the first monopoly. Luckily I managed to land on some property that posed as a good trade for another player, which we traded and soon the flurry of houses and hotels began, a veritable shit storm of investments and curses as less fortunate players landed on our bloated stretches of red and green plastic. After hours and hours, I tied the game with one of our hosts. We both had enough property that each turn resulted in the exchange of massive wads of little colored bills, neither of us gaining any financial ground on our opponent. We threw in the towel and I slept in a sea of my own sweat, half naked on a messy floor.

We had an air conditioned breakfast at Waffle House the next day and continued on our way, the taste of victory still fresh on my pallet. We were going to meet up with our buddies Genghis Tron for a short stretch of shows that night, an exciting prospect for me as the last time we were touring together I was extremely ill and didn't get much of a chance to hang out with them while shivering and coughing in the back seat of the van. Again, the show had spotty attendance but it was awesome seeing the Tron dudes again and we raged afterwards, showing them the exciting times to be had with punch game. Michael and I even exchanged slaps across the face. He was a bit sauced, the only reason I think he agreed to so quickly get involved at such a high level of punch game. He asked if I was going to hit him hard, and I responded affirmative. A drunken cheer went up as I slapped, open handed, right on the meat of his face. He spun around and almost went down. It was my turn next. I didn't see him wind up, choosing to close my eyes and let the hit come. I was told in the aftermath that he wound up like a side arm pitcher and slapped the living shit out of me. My defeat wasn't nearly as dramatic as his, I held my ground and muttered a humble groan of escaping pride, but his slap was low and hit my jaw. The ache of my jaw being rammed to the side still sits with me as I write this over a week later, a reminder of drunken comeradery, of dudes being dudes in the company of dudes, of tour. Punch game continued into the night. Nat and I tagged out after trading hits to the stomach, which hurt our wrists much more than our guts.

The next day was again, hot as balls. And again we were at Ms. Nature's mercy and without air conditioning. We spent a few sweaty hours in the house, completely miserable, then decided to head over to the mexican restaurant for AC and some fruity girl drinks. Mookie, Hamilton and I shared a pitcher of strawberry dacquerie. The show that night was 45 minutes away at The Red Parrot Cafe in Toledo. In attendance that night was a very young group of rag-tag punk kids, the kind of kids I hated having at shows when I was a young rag-tag punk. One of them, a very young man that couldn't have been older than eleven, was wearing a Misfits shirt and smoking ciggarettes like he had been at it for years. When he was reportedly confronted by one of his friends that he shouldn't be smoking at eleven, he supposedly threw his cigarrette to the ground with rage and said "Shut up you bitch!". Later in the night, I was watching an embarrassingly bad opening band and fighting off sleep from the free pizza I had enjoyed, when suddenly the group of young punks all formed into a little crowd at the table next to mine. Intrigue hit me like an avalanche. I craned my neck and peered over, utterly blown away by what I witnessed. A squat, young girl, slightly overweight with shoulder length hair and gobs of eye liner (it's all the rage these days) was quietly sitting down, a look of complete shock and horror on her face, as one of her peers pierced her lower lip with a safety pin. I watched the mock body modification artist pause just before he clasped the pin shut, beaming with pride in his own bad-assery, and his words were lost under the grunting and out of tune sonic travesty coming from the stage as he mouthed the words "I told you it would hurt". I'll never forget the look on her face as she tongued the safety pin, blood running down her chin, gazing into the faces of her friends in a desperate search for admiration and acceptance, her eyes silently screaming "Holy fuck this hurts, but I'm finally cool... Right?" The pin looked so awkward in her mouth, diagonally pierced through the lip, clasp end scraping up against her teeth. I don't know what will suck more, the raging infection that no doubt has inflamed her face into a red throbbing catcher's mit, or the hellfire that must have rained from whatever parental guardian caught the blunt of her angst. After the band played I was outside relaying the horror I had witnessed to Mookie as the piercer and a few of his cronies left the cafe, muttering about how they need to get some more safety pins. I did a fair amount of stupid shit when I was younger, but watching these young Ohians rage in their youthly fashion made me feel like goddamn Doogie Howser.

The last Ohio show in Toledo was just like all the others. Too hot, sparsely attended, and no real excitement from the audience. We did meet a few employees from Lumberjack Distribution who were kind with their praise and invited us by the office the next day. I was seriously dehydrated playing that night and felt pretty queezy the entire time on stage. It looked like my amps had shot water onto my body instead of blistering rock, my shirt was soaked. We went to our new friend Chris's apartment and watched the audio commentary from Arnold Schwarzenegger and John Milius on the Conan the Barbarian DVD, and then stayed up until day light playing Nintendo, featuring Kung-Fu, Contra, and Mike Tyson's Punch Out. Hamilton won much respect from the onlooking audience with his mastery of Punch Out.

Next morning we went to the Lumberjack office and had pizza for breakfast, which I think was my fourth straight meal consisting of pizza, which is half a complaint and half elation. Thank christ, we were leaving Ohio and heading back to the warm bosom of Chicago, morale thoroughly demolished. The show was at the Beat Kitchen, which is a sweet sounding room. Genghis Tron sounded amazing, despite their self proclaimed sloppy performance. Indian was savage and jaw droppingly loud, as usual. We kicked out the jams and laid waste to the room, a fun show. We retreated to the Flaster pad once again, where we quietly hung out and listened to Boston until all passed out.

Next day we left Genghis Tron to play in Bettendorf, Iowa at a comedy club called Penguins, which was attached to a crazy casino in the Quad Cities area. We waited to get the show started while a middle aged comedian with a Fender Squire apparently thrilled the audience with witty banter in between shoddy renditions of classic rock riffs. There's only so much "Whole Lotta Love" I can take being played through an off brand combo amp, so I went to the casino where we had caught rumors that if you showed your ID to the right people, gamblers were given a five dollar bill, no questions asked. The rumors were true. We showed ID, gave some fake addresses, and walked back to the bar with a fresh, crisp five dollar bill in our wallets. Sadly, it didn't last long. The show went super late and we played from 1:45 to 2:15. The bar shut down the show before Meth and Goats had a chance to rock our faces, and we rebelled by packing up and leaving. I was so tired that night I went to bed almost immediately after arriving at our host's apartment.

Next day was Milwaukee, and our last show with Genghis Tron. The turn out was great and the support bands were all pretty good, most notably Father Phoenix. We had some technical issues during the set, Aaron's amp was making an unhappy buzz and my cables kept coming unplugged which caused an ear scorching scream to come from the speakers. It was a good time though, and after the show we went to party with the locals. Someone had the ludicrous idea that a bon fire in August would be nice, so we corralled in the yard around a fire pit on a hot summer night. The usual hap hazard drunken antics occurred when fire and drunk people mix: reckless jumping over the flames, long walks to find more shit to burn, somebody throwing a huge cardboard box on the fire to see how big it could get. On one of the walks to find wood, someone happ'd upon a box of porn in a dumpster.

Porn boxes are an interesting phenomenon. Porn is usually accrued while a male is single and/or living alone or in the company of other single dudes. The collection grows as the content of each film becomes memorized with repetitive viewing and new porn is acquired for a fresh look at the same thing, also allowing the last film to be forgotten, therefore more exciting when put in for a nostalgic screening. Then, something happens where the male feels the need to purge the porn. This is usually caused by moving, either into a place where private porn screenings are not possible, or into an environment shared by an intimate partner, therefore rendering the necessity for porn obsolete and/or risky. The result then, is the accrued collection of porn being discarded along with common trash, and every so often being found by the next single male giving him a jump start on his collection, or in our case, a party of drunk people rooting through dumpsters looking for shit to throw on a bon fire.

Needless to say, there was a screening of the porn that night. I am usually violently against the viewing of pornography in any form while on tour. The male sex drive is a thirsty, rampaging beast, and when denied its periodic supplication can become a veritable behemoth, a 'Taz' mid-spin if you will. The images that course through a healthy young man's head after four weeks in a van with stinky dudes need no explanation here, nay, they would render this author at risk of federal persecution. Introducing the uncommonly graphic and bestial imagery of pornography to a young male in this state is similar to waving a raw steak in front of a starving bear, enticing a toddler with an ice cream cone, or calling Marty McFly a chicken. It's something I'd rather avoid, because a month without sex needs no external tantalizing. I like my balls. I'd rather they didn't explode. However, despite the testicular risk at hand it's hard to avoid the urge to see what treasures lie in a film called "Big Booby Boat Butt Adventure", so the party moved to the apartment and we started watching porn. It didn't last long. Nobody was really surprised that even though the name hinted at some golden and hidden comedic treasure chest waiting to be discovered, it was just regular old porn, made that much more awkward by the presence of females. We quickly changed it to Family Guy, and went to sleep shortly after.

The next day was a hasty and groggy good bye to Genghis Tron, made easy with the comfort that we'd be seeing them in a few weeks when their tour brought them to Seattle. We were off to Minneapolis for an early show at the Triple Rock, one of my favorite clubs to play in America. The Triple Rock is owned and run by the dudes in Dillinger Four, tour veterans who show they know what a touring band wants out of a club by treating their visiting bands extremely well. Free meal, free drinks, and friendly staff. The show was an early all ages deal, not our choice but the only spot available for the show. Enough people came to make a decent effort at bringing the rock, a good time was had, and after the show I spent over $5 on Simpsons pin ball while Nat was tutored in disarming knife wielding assailants by Triple Rock security.

Next day was off to Fargo. Not much to report other than low attendance and a late set. I couldn't stop thinking about how Godheadsilo used to be from Fargo, and I kept asking people if they saw them 'back in the day'. Only one guy said he did, and it turns out he saw them after they had moved, so it didn't count. I also kept an eye out for the car dealership that William H. Macey's character worked at in Fargo the movie, but didn't see anything too familiar.

Next was a day off. We drove to Missoula and rolled in around 4am, crashing with our friend Josh who runs the fabulous label Wantage USA (quality bro!). Crashed in his office aka basement, and got up the next day to enjoy a smattering of sitting around and watching crazy asian movies. The crown jewel was called Naked Killer. If you like lesbian assassins who make out, kill dudes, and cut off their wieners, then I highly recommend it. The show was at the Raven Cafe. It was a good time. Some dudes rocked out, but most of the audience did the folded arms dance that people usually do at our shows. We retired back to Josh's and watched Red Dawn, an Akimbo tradition when staying at the Wantage house. The movie is fantastic, worth it just for the scene where Patrick Swayze is crying and accidentally blows a snot bubble. That was the last show of tour. Next day was a relaxing drive home to Seattle, mission accomplished, where I now reside, work, and contemplate topics for the next rant.

Tour Blog #4 (7/20 - 7/28)

2006-07-30T10:54:00.000-07:00

We spent a groggy and relaxing afternoon at the Flaster household, arriving about 11am and dozing in the basement until 4pm. The load in at Subterranean was a less than pleasant haul up two flights of stairs. The show was to be with Elders (Scott's new band), our deliciously good pals Lords from Louisville, and the mighty Sweet Cobra. After a complimentary meal from the kind people at the club, we had a joyous reunion with our friends and got ready to rip the lid off of Chicago. We're gonna rip the lid off of it!!! I'll spare you the details of the show on this blog, but for anyone curious you can check out our friend Jesse's review of the show on punknews dot org right here. I may not have chosen the same verbage, but the energy and might of the show is easily captured in his review. Thank you Jesse.

The ensuing activities at Scott's house are somewhat hazy. I'm not really sure how it came to be, but it was a platonic yet physical act of brotherhood and comeradery, a dance of friendship, a physical manifestation to interpret the mutual trials we share as traveling bards. Me and Stan took turns punching each other in the arm. Sometimes referred to as "punch game", "the widow maker", or "death match", the rules of the game are simple. Two trained combatants exchange punches in the same spot on the opponent's arm, continuing until one of the players gives up, at which point all kinds of demasculating comments ensue, the kind of stuff we got called in high school as we blazed between classrooms with our heads low to avoid our athletically enhanced yet intolerant colleagues. Well, unlike Stan, I'm not friends with a ninja kung-fu dude that knows how to kill a person with strategic blows to pressure points, so needless to say I was at a slight disadvantage. I tagged out early, but drank enough to start up again a few minutes later. Chris Owens also got involved, and when I say that I mean he started punching me for no reason completely out of turn. I don't know how much those dudes learned from their wise ninja black belt friend, but they definitely took notes on the punch maneuver that causes massive horrific bruising. I woke up the next morning to find the most heinous blemish in the shape of Stan's fist advertising my sissy defeat at punch game, prominent on my outer right bicep.

The bruise is name worthy, although it has no name. He's like any other gay friend you have, never content with one outfit for too long, always changing colors, gets way more attention from women than you do. Like a sexy, painful chameleon. Actually it looks way worse than it is. Unfortunately blogger is not cooperating and I'm unable to upload any of the pictures I've taken of the baby nebula on my arm, so you'll have to trust me when I say it's kind of like a hyper-color Piccasso under my skin.

The show that night was to happen in Lansing, Michigan. We presumed there was a large time consuming errand to run before we could leave, being that Aaron needed to get a temporary residence visa to play our one show in Canada. We're not smart men, and Scott's internet was down literally paralyzing our ability to acquire knowledge, so I hiked a few blocks to the nearest public library and got the necessary information to clear Aaron's name and get him over the border. This information also included the fact that the Canadian embassy in Chicago does not provide this service, so instead we got breakfast and hit the road, planning on attempting to acquire said document in Buffalo.

The turnout in Lansing was a bit upsetting, as our last show there was well attended. Lords were with us again, as well as the other two bands from the previous night in Chicago, as well as some more. It was Hood Booking's last show in Lansing, so Steven was throwing a barbeque. Apparently cheap beer, awesome music, and cheese burgers aren't enough to get the rockers to come out in Lansing, but we did our thing nonetheless. During the last song Stan, being the aspiring gentleman that he is, threw an empty beer can at me from two feet away. He chose a prime moment to assail me, because as his arm came down to hurl the spent beer, my head (in full rock star glory) came down in a most crucial headbang and the bridge of my nose connected with the beer can before it had the chance to leave Stan's grubby little mitts. So, instead of tossing a harmlessly light empty alluminum can in my direction, the effect was that of being punched in the face with a metal coated boxing glove, leaving a cute little bruise right between my eyes. After the set, punch game made a triumphant return, only this time we were slamming our fists into each other's stomachs as hard as we could. I already got the lecture from Maria so please spare me another dose of morality laced with maternal "you should know better". I know it's stupid, but it makes for a great internet video. It starts with Stan, Nat and I trading blows outside of Mac's, then moves on to the house party where Remis of Sweet Cobra gets involved (an opponent I shy away from with great reverence), Chris and I trade some chest punches, and Stan picks up Nat (maybe the gayest thing that happened all night). In addition to more than enough beer to sufficiently equip a fraternity for seven super bowls, the house we were hurting each other at also happened to have all the leftover meat from the barbeque. So, what else do real men do after drinking beer and fighting? Eat steak. We cooked up a whole mess of steaks and gorged. I think that night was the closest I will ever get to traveling the plains of Brythunia with Conan and his men. Beers, punching, eating the flesh of other living creatures. An eve I will treasure for many years to come. Perhaps one day when I have a son it will be his right of passage into manhood, to punch his father in the arm, drunk, with a beef flank stuffed into his cheeks. The night came to a close with Nat using a discarded Super Soaker to clean some of the meat bits off of Stan's face before he went to sleep. Friendship.

The only thing that was missing from the mayhem were our buddies in Elders who had shacked in a hotel that night. They only get honorable mention because I was informed in a flurry of text messages that they almost out-partied us, ending with one member sleeping naked and another member waking up to find he had shit the bed. Truth? I can't say. Only the four men within those hotel walls will ever know.

The next morning we found that someone had lost their steak into our host's shower over the course of our slumber. A picture is not necessary. It was fucking gross.

After a sad farewell to Sweet Cobra and Lords, we made the jaunt over to Buffalo. The show didn't go too hot. We played with Gongtopia, which was a dude with a bunch of gongs playing pieces that he had written. It was pretty cool, and a welcome change from standard rock/metal band with brutal mosh part x after thrashy speed part y, but didn't do much to bring out the locals to the show. The other band had potential. I think they were called Divine Machine. The dudes dressed in Target bought Jawa outfits, and the promoter had told us that they sound like Goblin (70's band that composed original instrumental rock/funk/ambient soundtracks to a whole mess of absurdly great and timeless horror movies). It seemed like it was a shoe in for a good show, but alas I was saddened at the realization that sounding like Goblin, and wanting to sound like Goblin are two very different things. They opened the set with a cover of the theme to Return of the Living Dead, one of my all time favorite zombie movies. A great song, and a wise choice for a cover. However, one thing I've noticed over the years of touring and playing shows is that more often than not a band's cover of someone else's song is usually the best number they'll play that night, and this was no exception. My excitement quickly waned as their set plodded on, and by the time they were finishing up I was outside slamming a Miller in preparation for another show in front of an unenthusiastic handful of people who probably think I'm an arrogant pre-madonna. After the show we met up with Sarah, a friend of Juan Montoya who plays guitar in the gut wrenchingly good Torche. He had told her to come see us, and she offered to put us up. First we went to a party, where Nat carried the punch game torch with Sarah and another slim, fragile looking female at the party. One would normally be wary of a guy like Nat trading blows with small women, but for some reason everyone was okay with it. I don't want to insinuate any of that girls are weaker crap, I think there are plenty of girls who could take a punch from plenty of guys and hardly flinch. It needs to be stressed that these girls both had the frames of 12 year olds. It just didn't seem like a good idea. This was immediately evident when Nat delivered his first hit in the middle of the party room, and a raucous, drunken dance party went instantly silent with shock, all eyes on the strange man with long hair who had just punched a super model in the gut with the force of an umberhulk. However, they both clocked him good in return and he seemed genuinely throttled. After the party Sarah cooked us grilled cheese sammiches and biscuits with eggs. I fell asleep in the living room watching the Super Mario Brothers movie, which I had completely forgotten is the most insane and nonsensical film ever to be released.

The next day was a day off. The consulate general in Buffalo that was to provide us with Aaron's visa was not open on Sundays, so we were completely shit out of luck. I guess Canadians hate getting their faces rocked off by loud bands from Seattle. Sarah offered to put us up another night and we happily obliged. We got beers and hung out on the deck all afternoon. Yoni took some great pictures, Aaron gave Sarah guitar lessons, we listened to Skynrd, ate some Taco Bell, and Maria and I had an intense phone discussion about the merits of M. Knight Shyamallamma's various works after she saw Lady in the Water. I still say Signs can eat a dick. Sarah's male model roommate was generous with his weed, resulting in me spending a relaxing hour and a half before I fell asleep listening to my ipod with a shit eating grin on my face.

Our next show was in Massachusetts in some shit college town called North Brookfield. We were 4 hours on our way when Michelle called with the heart wrenching news that the show was cancelled due to things getting rowdy at another show that had happened a few days earlier, resulting in everything getting cancelled regardless of the notice needed to give touring bands time to find something to do. We called up our old buddy Nate Shumaker of Dopamine Records / On Fire fame and scheduled a ferocious bro down like the olden times. He knew exactly how to welcome us, hugging us outside with a 30 case of PBR in one arm. I made a run to the store to get some bratwursts, and we beer'd and barbeque'd. Yoni and I closed the evening with a screening of Anchor Man, the best movie in the world.

We hung out in Nate's apartment for most of the morning, then bailed to Boston for our show at Great Scott with Disappearer. The show went really well, and people showed up and stuck around despite our playing at 1am on a Tuesday night. After the show we stayed with our friend Kerry who used to live in Seattle, only we actually slept at her friend's apartment that was being moved out of the following week. The place was a mess, everything all over the floor in preparation for being moved, complete with little bugs and beetles scurrying across the floor from junk pile to junk pile. The last thing you want to see when you're going to sleep in someone's house is insects crawling around on the floor, because invariably those of us that don't sleep in the van or get a couch will be down there with them. In the shit. The front line. Once we stayed in a house that in all seriousness had an ant trail moving through the middle of the living room. The only option when we find ourselves in this situation is to drink so much we fall into a deep, fairy tail slumber as soon as we hit the ground, otherwise your thoughts are plagued with visions of the bug pit scene in the King Kong remake and every little twitch you feel on your skin, be it a hair on your arm brushing against the blanket, the sleeping bag settling against your body, or a pregnant cockroach laying poisonous eggs in your ear will send you into a frantic covulsion of slapping and brushing. We drank and watched Ghostbusters, revelling in Rick Moranis, and by the time I had consumed enough alcohol to blind-side my phobia of waking up in a cocoon I retired to my little gap I had made between boxes, furniture and shelves. It was right next to the wasp nest, just a few feet behind the termite mound.

The next morning we were woken by Yoni who had slept in the van. Yoni has Pancreantitus and his health is constantly fluctuating. He had been in pretty bad shape for a few days and wasn't getting any better. He needed a ride to the airport so we got up and took him to Logan. It was a huge bummer losing him, but he was pretty uncomfortable and it was the obvious best choice. We miss him and hope he's doing better.

The three of us continued down to Darien, Connecticut for our show at The Depot. It was pretty disappointing. The Depot is a teen center that does live shows, similar to Ground Zero and The Old Firehouse where I was lucky enough to see live music as a thirteen year old, resulting in me sitting in this here van and recklessly traveling America instead of doing that job thing or that school thing. I have a huge soft spot in my heart for places like this, but as an adult in a touring band it's not the place Akimbo should be playing. Those type of places are for nurturing young musicians and giving them a platform to create their own environment, to take ownership of performing and setting up shows. Those places are not for rock bands with 20 amps that will knock the windows out of their frames. They are not for borderline alcoholics who enjoy a beer or twelve with each performance. They are not for touring bands that can't afford hotels and rely on other bands and people to put us up after shows. The result was us announcing during the set that we need a place to stay, which was 85% a joke, and 15% a depressingly genuine request. I concluded the announcement with "as long as you don't live with your parents" which apparently was completely disregarded because the only offer we got was accompanied with "I'll have to ask my mom." We were assured that she was "cool", which wasn't too comforting. The "cool" factor varies dramatically from 16 year old son in his punk phase, to 25 year old adult filthy from weeks on the road, unshaven, bruised, tattooed, and starving. Miraculously, we were approved, and I can only imagine the regret that must have coursed like the Nile as we entered her clean, air conditioned, febreezed home. Whether or not sheer terror seized her at the sight of us, we were welcomed with an unnecessary amount of hospitality as we sat around her patio table with a few of her son's friends and enjoyed a late meal of ice tea, veggie burgers, pretzels, cheddar cheese combos, and (I shit you not) pigs in blankets. Slightly awkward, but very pleasant. After the kids who didn't live there took off, we were shown to our own bedrooms and everyone went to bed. Yup. We were put to bed. Lights out! I tucked in and watched the making of Jaws on my lap top and had a restful sleep in a guest bedroom under a plaque that said simply in large bold letters: INSPIRE.

We woke up around 8am and were fed coffee and blueberry muffins. I didn't really know how to engage in any kind of casual conversation with these people (my vernacular for bullshitting revolves entirely around video games, horror movies, and marine life) so all I could do was thank them over and over again for being so generous and hospitable. I wasn't being sarcastic or anything, it was completely genuine. But, it was pretty much all I could think of to say besides discussing the best freeway to take on the way out. We got directions and moved on, leaving our host to scower her house in search of any missing valuables and hose down the beds.

The drive to Pittsburgh was long. We got lost in New York and ended up driving all the way through it, out the bottom end and back up to Pennsylvania through New Jersey. The drive through Pennsylvania was gorgeous as usual. The freeways travel through long stretches of green hills, a cool drink of water compared to the dry nothing of the mid west and the 2000 mile strip mall on the east coast. I love driving in Pennsylvania and always offer to "man the carriage" as it were when we're going through it.

It seemed the show in Pittsburgh was doomed from the start. We were up against three notable shows all happening in the city, the worst of which was a free Don Caballero show happening in a small bar in a much more "hip" area of town. We were also informed by one of the local bands at the show that in addition to the hype worthy competition, there were also a few smaller shows happening with local heavy rock bands, so even the troglodite metal dudes that aren't constantly clicking refresh on the Buddy Head gossip column would be spoken for. Only two people came. After two bands they were refunded and the show was called off. The promoter was very professional and still paid us, fed us, and alcohol'd us, and we were grateful for that, but it was a huge bummer. One of those nights where Lady Fate puts on her bitch pants and shits on your face. We packed up, and then Aaron and I waited around while Nat and the promoter talked about jews, being jewish, judaism, and jewish day school. After the jews finished jewing about jewness, we admitted complete defeat and drove to the free Don Caballero show that stole our audience to meet up with John, the drummer of the first band who had bailed after playing so his other band could open the Don Cab show. HIs directions were somewhat spotty, and that combined with three dudes all arguing over which way to go gets you very very lost. We eventually arrived and waited at the bar for the show to finish. I was completely glued t the TV watching that Japanese game show they play on Spike TV. The one where people dress up as bowling pins and get slammed with a giant bowling ball, run up a hill with giant fake boulders bouncing down at them, and run across the pond on floating pads that fall out from under their feet. People always fall over and get hurt, and we all know there is nothing in the world funnier than people getting hurt. You may have seen it. It's called "the best show on TV since MacGuyver". The show ended and we went to John's where I immediately crashed, despite the lack of air conditioning. We had to get up early the next day for Dude Fest, and that is where this post ends and the next begins.

Tour Blog #3 (7/16 - 7/20)

2006-07-26T17:28:00.000-07:00

Leaving Seattle was kinda rough. It's always so good to see Maria and Max again and even though I knew I'd be leaving the next day I had kind of settled into the "home again" phase. Alas, rockery awaited and we bailed early to get to Boise. The drive was not something I would describe as fun, relaxing, or comfortable. Lots of time spent on tiny two lane highways going through miniscule towns, just going to prove my theory that Wyoming actually starts 60 miles east of Seattle. It didn't help either that I got our directions from Google Maps on this tour, which we were morosely disappointed to find is like taking direction from a blind 4th grader.

Nature won another notch on the score sheet against me in Boise. The dry heat pretty much killed the discomfort we skirted against in California. I hate the sun. It's the only thing that can completely demoralize me in the amount of time it takes to exclaim "Holy fucking christ I need some ice cream." The show was in an odd bar that didn't seem too accustomed to hosting bands of our ilk and volume, but ended up going really well. A lot of "hat metal" dudes were there pretty early, you know the type. Baggy shorts, t-shirts displaying sports teams, clothing brands, and various ironic muses about drinking, fighting, and/or copulation. I ran into an old tattoo artist of mine that did the lines on my forearms. The reunion was joyous. The post show hangout was also a zinger, smoked up with Saviours in a tattoo shop and then retired to a house that one of the dudes had wrangled up. Thankfully we had a moderately cool basement to sleep in, but it smelled ferociously of cat urine and someone thought it'd be a good idea to keep coming in and turning on music for us to sleep to. Scott of Saviours fame had his first real sleep in 2 weeks that night and I have never heard a more vicious and awe inspiring snore. It woke me out of a deep, mystifying sleep fueled by weed and beer, a feat in and of itself. At first I was irked at being jolted from my rest, but my irritation quickly dissipated into wonder and adoration for the majesty of Scott's snore, an intimidating yet magnetically curious sensation that I imagine young Bilbo Baggins had felt as he clambered into the chamber of the sleeping Smaug. It was like a heaving beast in the dark, but what made it so wondrous and horrific was how hard he was breathing. Imagine a brutal snore, like something that would come out of John Candy, but sped up so that the noise belched every second. This was my lullaby in the early hours of the morning.

Salt Lake City was lame. Too hot and the club didn't even put the support bands on the posters for the show. We had a stage hand type dude who had all the enthusiasm of a Chotchky's employee sans flare, and while we weren't offered any pizza shooters or extreme fajitas, we did get some excellent shitty chinese food, a personal vice that I readily indulge in whenever possible. The club was cluttered with TVs hanging all over the place, there's even two at the front of the house on either side of the stage. They had the audacity to play live DVDs of other bands while the real bands were playing on stage. Trivett of The Sword was awesome enough to turn them off while we played, only to have tight faced employees come over and turn them back on. It's kind of a bummer to be playing to a barely populated room, look up and see Killswitch Engage doing backflips and ninja kicks in front of a packed house, and then look down to see the dullards in the room watching the band on TV instead of the real band on the real stage. Why did you come to the show? That night we joined The Sword in their hotel and drank like it was revenge on the heat and the show.

Up early again for the drive to Denver, which turned out to be much more pleasant than I had anticipated. The altitude in Denver is a silent oppressive blanket that hangs in your head and coats one with sloth and the fierce desire to take a nap. No naps were had though. My plan was to ignore the effects of the high altitude and thin air by drinking. It kind of worked, a bit. It worked well enough that I don't really remember much happening after the show other than making an enthusiastic stop at Wendy's and falling asleep on a carpet that was in dire need of a thorough shampooing.

And once more, we were up early to get to Lawrence, Kansas. Sadly this would be our last show with Saviours and The Sword. This was also the hottest day I have ever experienced in my 25 years of flipping off and cursing at the giant, flaming asshole in the sky we call the sun. It was in the upper 80s in our van with the air conditioning raging at full blast. Leaving the marginal safety of said air conditioning would result in your body practically shooting sweat like a million tiny super soakers. When we pulled up to the Granada around 8pm, we saw the temperature displayed on one of those electronic reader boards attached to a bank. 108 degrees. At 8pm. The sun wasn't even high in thee sky anymore. This is obvious proof that world is indeed going blow up soon, or melt, or something. Frankly I'm glad. The less time I have to spend in that kind of weather the better.

The Granada was huge, a little unnecessary for our bands, but it's fun to play big stages like that and pretend the place is packed with rabid fans, topless bikini babes perched on their shoulders. Here's a video of the bands doing their thing, complete with sugues provided by Yoni's illustrious dancing Mexican friend Fritz. I took a bunch of video of this dude who was standing in front of JD while The Sword was playing. Sadly, it was too dark to make anything out. He was pretty stoked. He would steadily rotate from screaming the lyrics with arms raised, frantically playing air guitar and head banging, and then stopping and staring at the band with childish adoration.

The post show hangout while we were loading out was bittersweet and ripe with bromance. We said our goodbyes and farewells, and drove all night to Chicago. Nat was a goddamn champion and single handedly guided us for 11 hours into the warm and inviting bosom of the Flaster residence. Scott and Cara Flaster, who run Seventh Rule Records and put out our "City of The Stars" album, were our gracious hosts as usual. They're kind of like a spare parents house, they have washing machines and almost always feed us. I crashed out in the cool basement and slept like a wee babe.

Tour Blog #2 (7/11 - 7/16)

2006-07-25T00:18:00.000-07:00

San Diego was spent mostly indoors. We sat on couches, benches, chairs and other sitting devices, placing our bodies on them and resting accordingly. I got a six pack of "Shark Bite Ale" as a treat for myself, a welcome break from the Millers and PBRs and random van heated beers that get neglected, then found, then downed in a bittersweet celebration, hitting the pallet like a mouthful of fizzy beer flavored spit.

The show that night at Brick By Brick was a little disappointing. We got a free dinner from the restaurant attached to the venue, which is always welcome and an exciting little flirt with success. The service was so slow it was hard not to let out my inner Larry David and start complaining. The complimentary Stella kept me subdued enough to wait it out, but it was silly how long it took to get our food, which was altogether baffling as we were quite literally the only people eating. The result was a 40 ton lead brick of food crammed into my stomach 10 minutes before we were supposed to play. Performing with that much extra weight in your body is not ideal. It's hard to look enthusiastic when it feels like you're running a marathon pregnant with an elephant fetus frolicking in your bowels. There were a few times in the set when I'd burp between yowls and get a little taste of barf, or "vurp" as the kids called it back at Enatai Elementary. During the set Nat busted the head on his giant kick drum, grabbing the feeble momentum we had mustered and dropping it right on it's ass. I wasn't much help in the stand up comedy department either, I just wanted to take a nap, and stood there like I was waiting for a bus while Nat got a new drum from Scott. Two songs later Aaron broke a string and we were back in the same double fish tank, the audience watching me, me watching them watch me. We finished up the set and started partying.

Saviours were great. The Sword was great. Unfortunately people only really started showing up around 10 as Saviours were getting started so we got the dirt end of the show. Afterwards was a hushed hangout at J.P.'s house and then sleep.

Next day was Los Angeles at Spaceland, with Karen (Nat's special lady) officially on tour with us. We arrived really early and roasted in the sun while we waited for the bar workers to show up and open the club. Karen, Aaron and I took a walk and found a tiny little mexican restaurant boasting tour friendly prices on neon signs and I revelled in a most glorious pork burrito, giggling as a shirtless, muscular gentleman burst from beneath a pond and surprised an unsuspecting woman with enormous lips on the Mexican soap opera playing in the corner. I took a hint from past waits on tour and didn't do any heavy drinking before the show. Just some light drinking. It was free slurpee day at 7-11 so I got one and enhanced it with the giant bottle of Malibu rum that Yoni has been nursing for a bit. It will never stop being hilarious that Yoni has a giant bottle of Malibu.

The show ended up being sold out, and the only thing better than a sold out audience is a sold out enthusiastic audience. And the only thing better than a sold out enthusiastic audience is a sold out, enthusiastic, punctual audience that is there to see the opening band, which is what we got. The Spaceland show was easily the best so far and I felt really good about the set.

After the show we went back to Jared's house where he was preparing some hot dogs and beer for us. We walked in and I took a seat at his little patio table where him, his roommate Andy, and a few other people were hanging out. And now a tangent that will make sense soon...

A few weeks earlier a coworker and I were talking about various brilliant things like talking cats and shirtless anger incarnate. We had just done some work on the new Garfield video game for Nintendo DS and I had heard through the grapevine that David Yow from the Jesus Lizard had done the graphic design for the Garfield 2 movie, which is what our game was based on. Yeah. If you didn't know, David Yow lives in LA and does graphic design for movies. Apparently years of getting naked on stage, yowling your voice out of its throat, throwing pint glasses at the audience, bleeding, shitting, and encompassing one of the most violent rock personalities that has possibly ever existed gets a dude the necessary notoriety to break into the field of redesigning shitty cartoons for boring Hollywood marketing. He made it. I'll be happy if I can just get to the point where I realize I need to get a real job before my ear drums disintegrate. Old man internet couldn't confirm that he had worked on that particular movie, but I did get a good look at his IMDB profile that has a current picture of him where he looks kind of like a pissed off Bono without all the makeup and the shit-eating "hello, I am an enormous asshole" sunglasses. The picture looked...

...exactly like the dude sitting next to me. Holy fuck. I had just picked a spot at the patio I knew so well and looked over to see my favorite rock vocalist of all time. The guy that all the other "crazy dudes" try to out-antic and just end up embarrassing themselves. David Yow, next to me. I have one chance to say something here, the only challenge is not coming off like a complete douche or annoying fan-boy. Right as I admit defeat and realize the only possible thing to do is casually hang out and introduce myself if the opportunity arises, the opportunity gets up, says good bye and walks out the front gate. Oh well. Now I get to tell everyone I "met" David Yow on tour and it will be our little secret that really I just sat next to him on accident, mentally shit my pants, and then sat there frozen with terror for thirty seconds before he got up and left. But the hot dogs were exquisite.

Next day was up to San Francisco for the show at Slim's. I wasn't expecting the amount of people that showed up and again we were privileged with a punctual audience. The show was fun. We had played Slim's before and it didn't go as well. We were on tour with the Blood Brothers at the time and it was one of those shows where the room was packed with people who didn't really care about us at all. The reception at this show was much better. I was also stoked on the show for another reason besides the elated roar of 500 bearded metal dudes after each song, because I got my first foosball challenge of the tour. It came in the form of a heckle between songs saying they could kick my ass at foosball. I got so pumped to get rolling with the game after the set, but sadly it was just a dude from Kill the Messenger challenging me on the behalf of his friend who wasn't even there. This didn't comply with any of the rules for foosball challenge so a game didn't happen. After the show we crashed with the amazing Seth in his amazing small apartment.

Next day was stressful. Here's the summary:
Wake up early to run errands. Takes us way too long to get out of the apartment. Nat accidentally locks his keys in Seth's apartment. Yoni is missing when it's time to leave and we have a very uncomfortable wait in 96 degree weather in the van, which we had unknowingly parked right in front of some kind of soup kitchen/needle exchange/methedone clinic/place where crazy cracked out drug addicts hang out on the street and stare at you while they talk to themselves. Find Yoni and drive to Seth's work in the middle off downtown San Francisco at 12:30 on a work day. We travel 10 blocks in 45 minutes. Get Seth's keys, go back to his apartment, get Nat's keys. Try to find a Guitar Center on the way to Seth's work and can't find it. Back to Seth's work to return his keys. Go to East Bay to pick up merch from Alternative Tentacles. Get back on freeway to find the 101 North to go to Eureka for a show that may not be happening. Get turned around in the tornado of confusion that is the Bay Area freeways and go the wrong way on 580. Don't realize we went the wrong way until we hit I-5. Give up and drive to Medford for another evening with the Schrags.

Stacy is the only person to our knowledge (besides me) that has an Akimbo tattoo. It's a huge compliment personally, and he also picked one of my favorite designs we've ever used. Here's a picture. It's on his wrist.

Yoni gets us up early to drive to Portland the next day. Get to show way early and hang out for hours at Dante's leeching off the free wireless. Played Mario DS and got to world 8. Said "fuck" close to 100 times in the process. After the show we partied on a roof. Passed out in the van, homeless style (shoes still on).

Next day we're up early again to get Aaron back to Seattle for an orthodontist appointment. I get dropped off at home for some quality one on one with my favorite girlfriend Maria and our little furry friend Max, and am bummed but not surprised that all she wants to do is watch Project Runway and talk about fashion. Great to be home! We make lunch, I do laundry, shower, play with kitty, and then its off El Corazon for load in. Maria and I pregame a bit over at the Lobo, and then return to the show. Seattle was a huge blast. It was my first being on tour and being home at the same time.

Tour Blog #1 (7/6 - 7/10)

2006-07-10T15:51:00.000-07:00

Tour started with a quick jaunt down to Portland to pick up our illustrious roadie Yoni Kifle who had some photography up in an art show, and was delaying our punctuality hob-nobbing with various Oregon high brow 'artists' over bree and wine. Actually, he was getting drunk at The Tube while his art show was happening a few blocks away. Too cool for his own party indeed. We met at said Tube and indulged in a few delicious and welcome Hamm's tall-boys before heading over to see the art show, and by "see" I mean milling about the entrance of the crowded strip watching people smoke and nodding our heads in the vicinity of conversations about smart things like "films" and "body modification" (a fancy term for shoving pieces of metal under your skin in an attempt to look like the mutants in Total Recall). It was a good time though, and since there wasn't a show that night we could afford to hang out and take a drive break. Yoni joins us on all the tours and is an incredible photographer.

After trying to poop and failing, Yoni got his things together and we hit the road down to Medford to stay with our good friends Stacy and Kimbo Schrag for the night. The drive was long, dark, and extremely scary for me because we haven't adjusted the headlights on our new van and they point down towards the ground at an angle that incites fear and surprise with only about 40 feet of road illuminated in front of you. Fortunately, death did not find us that night and we rolled in around 1:30 am, thirsty and ready to bum out our hosts who had to get up early the next day. Luckily, Kimbo and Stacy were ready to hang out though and we raged proper. Thanks for partying in the face of responsibility and jobs, we had a blast.

Next day was a haul down to Oakland to play our fist show of the tour at the Stork Club, a cool little bar on Telegraph. The weather could be described as "hellish", or "swimming through the devils colon". If there's one thing I hate it's a brutally hot day, especially when combined with not being in the shade or in front of a fan with an icy cervesa mashed against my crotch. We could feel it when we got up that morning. Mother Nature (evil slut) was cranking the shit up in an attempt to piss me off and make me cranky. Well, fuck you Mother Nature. We now have air conditioning, a razor sharp sword that I wield against your fiendish desires with all the righteousness of a 17th level Paladin in the din of battle against undead masses. I will cleave your whorish sun rays of ultra violet hate and bask in the holy glory that is the humble black vent next to my thigh, spitting it's cool refreshing love into our little traveling geo-dome.

I got a speeding ticket just north of San Francisco. I was trying to outrun heat.

The show at the Stork was a good time. Thankfully no racists were present, as we were led to believe could be the case by some local friends that were boycotting the club due to the owner being a man of ignorance and racial prejudice. But he wasn't there, and all the money that comes in goes to the bands, so all they boycotted was rock. A most heinous offense. Did an interview with Sound Scene Revolution before the show that should be up for podcast pretty soon here. The show was fun, saw some good friends, and played a spotty set that I would refer to as a "warm up". After leaving a few stupidly awesome drunk messages with my friends trying to score a place to stay, our booking agent Michelle took pity on us and figured she wasn't going to make much money off us if we started the tour bruised and junk-sick from a night on the streets and begrudgingly took us in. Stopped for some mission burritos on the way back to her place, and I force fed my road burn on some unsuspecting fools on Mario Kart DS before retiring to bed, champion racer of the mushroom kingdom. Party at Peach's house after the ceremony. Bring your own fire flowers. No lakatus allowed.

Next day we got up and shambled around Michelle's apartment, successfully weirding out her roommates enough to make them stay in their room and not say hi. Got some coffee with Michelle and talked business for a bit, shot the shit about mutual friends and japanese rockers, drank some wine, and hit the road to Santa Barbara. Thanks for putting us up Michelle. You are now officially bound to hosting us at any time we decree it necessary. Sorry. It was in the contract.

The ride to Santa Barbara was typical... It took place on a road. We sat in a van. We did things like read, sit in front of the air conditioning vents, look out the window, and erupt into a chorus of bitter opinions whenever the doors were opened while stopped. The show happened at Casa de la Raza, a hispanic youth center where we had played with Torche and Black Cobra a few months prior. The room that is used for shows was unavailable due to a Quinceanera that was happening. I guess it's a big deal for hispanic girls to throw a huge party on their 15th, kind of like a coming of age type thing for the parents to remember the days of collecting Bratz stickers, a celebration of life before shot-gunning tequila in youthful rebellion. Well, they had the whole building, which meant we got the patio. A show attendee made the astute observation that the show looked like it was taking place at the brothel patio seen at the end of Way of the Gun, sans fountain, pissed off dudes shooting each other, and naked babes running for cover. We also were there considerably early and I made a b-line for a taco truck that had served me a fucking glorious carne asada burrito before our last show. Unfortunately, the taco truck was of the mobile ilk and had moved to a more profitable location. Fortunately, the liquor store next door did not have wheels or an engine and was still in the same spot crammed with all kinds of delicious drinks. We stocked up on entertainment for the next few hours and went back to the van to start entertaining ourselves, the highlight being when Nat said something ridiculous and made Yoni laugh so hard his rum pineapple cocktail (out of a styrofoam cup) came out his nose and back into his drink, which he continued drinking. Craig and The Fucking Wrath dudes showed up and we pretty much turned the block outside the birthday party into our own little punk rock frat row.

The show was weird, as you would imagine a show in a patio at a hispanic youth center would be. The attendance was decent though, and The Fucking Wrath ruled pretty good, and we had fun. Sadly, the members of Akimbo had been partying a little too hard for a little too long, most notably Aaron, who blundered through the set with all the grace of a stunned gorilla. That's not to say Nat and I didn't have our fair share of forehead slappable bloopers, but Aaron had single handedly polished 75% of a fifth of Jack Daniels and you could hear the drunk in his amps. We were a conjoined machine of slop, producing new versions of our songs that sounded like we were 3rd graders playing along to seven different punk albums all at the same time. Ok, it wasn't that bad. I'm embellishing on the behalf of literary frolicking, but once again Akimbo was the embodied uppance that comes with drinking too much before the set. You think we'd learn one of these days.

Immediately after the show we found an In n' Out Burger and gorged in the manner assumed normal for alcohol enhanced appetite, then rolled to Craig's house for the night where we watched an instructional video on how to bar fight like a white trash judo instructor.

The next day was the highlight of tour thus far. We joined Craig, Ox Vs. Thunderbird dudes, The Fucking Wrath dudes, and the Santa Barbara party fun crew for their visigoth games, which are frighteningly close to LARPing in that people dress as vikings and other children of Cimmeria. Sadly, we had to leave before the real games started, but we did see a "Conan", an archer shoot an arrow at a tree, and a few pirates. We also spent a good hour sliding down a hill on blocks of ice, which was possibly the most fun I've had doing anything since I saw Starship Troopers for the first time. You can watch the video here, or just go to Maria's blog because hers is way smarter than mine. We will be submitting this to a yet unnamed soda company to try and get an extreme sports beverage sponsorship.

The show in Riverside wasn't too eventful. It was a blast seeing and hanging out with the dudes in The Plot to Blow Up the Eiffel Tower again, and laughing while they made fun of Willy. The show was in a huge, empty, concrete warehouse and the sound was horrendous. There was so much echo all the bands sounded like a wash of indistinguishable noise, which only fueled the drinking and desire to get out of that weird town. We drove back to San Diego with the Plot and now we're hanging out waiting for load in. Tonight we meet up with Saviours and The Sword for the next 10 days, and I'm eager to get the ball rolling on the mega rock that is sure to be... mega.

Leave for tour today

2006-07-06T14:46:00.000-07:00

I leave for a big ol' month long tour today in an hour or so. I'll be using the blog to keep an online diary going which will hopefully document the straight shot success of Akimbo rising to the title of 'even better than rock gods'. But most likely it will be an amusing telling of our latest journey through disaster and social mockery.

The other day Maria and I had some cream puffs. They were pretty disgusting as you can see. But I wouldn't be honoring the Weisnewski family crest if I didn't eat it anyways. Shit was delicious.

Max helped me finish the last few bites. He's a good cat. He's in my lap purring right now. I'm pretty sure when I get up to leave I will be bleeding.

I almost gave up. Those things were awful. They tasted like snot cakes. But at the last minute Maria shouted words of bravery and encouragement and I rose to the task. I couldn't let her down and just leave the cream puffs to rot in the garbage. A hungry homeless person might get them.

That's right. Don't fuck with me. This could be you.

The Surging Tide of "Hipster Metal"

2006-06-21T10:03:00.000-07:00

So recently I read a great article on "False Metal", or as the author Dave Burns very verbosely and eloquently took six pages to describe, "The Financial and Farcical Return of Heavy Metal". I've engaged in varying degrees and extremities of 'metal dudeness' for the greater part of my life, so naturally the subject is something that is not only near and dear, but one that I have my own fork-tipped opinions on. Friends can vouch, and probably complain that I will crucify or herald bands that seemingly sound exactly the same, citing minute and admittedly pointless technicalities as their admission to my personal banquet table of glory. I openly admit to being opinionated and picky about music, especially the loud heavy kind. It's hard not to be when you've seen as many bands as I have.

Here's the article: I hope you have 30 minutes. It was originally published in Lamentations of the Flame Priestess which has my vote for the best named metal publication. Ever. I will warn you that it is long, and at times seems very unfocused and meandering. You'll want to give up, to write off Burns as a jaded burnt-up husk of a writer who is just seeking some kind of vent for his personal frustrations at the current music scene. But damn if he doesn't wrap it all up nicely on the last page. He cites his sources and quotes, and basically calls out the elite underground press channels and labels on a huge money making venture bent on turning our beloved "heavy metal" into a flavor of the month cash cow. The last paragraph really grabs the whole thing by the jewels and holds it up for a collective gasp...

"Mascara-wearing bands whose goal is to snort coke off of platinum records, alt-rockers posing as metallers and a venal metal media bending with the trends-these were the causes of the collapse of heavy metal in the early '90s that had a profound effect on the vitality of the underground. As a wise man once observed, history does repeat itself from time to time, but the first time around it is a tragedy and the second time it is a farce. The farcical nature of the current trends reproducing the atmosphere of the early 1990s is that it is all being done in the name of classic, true and honest heavy metal by individuals aping the sounds of the golden age without the passion and intelligence of the influences they are bastardizing for their own disingenuous ends. Yet there will be no significant counterattack: "journalists" in the metal media will either remain silent about these issues or willingly prostitute themselves by supporting bullshit music, the mainstream media will pick and choose whatever is being promoted as "the next thing" in metal and market it as such, bands with the influence and prominence to shape the terrain will take out less well-known versions of Avenged Sevenfold out on tour and champion them as real metal in order to remain "relevant," and many of the people listening to metal will unthinkingly embrace whatever is served up as metal to them. Still, the authentic, honest and true qualities of heavy metal is alive and well in some out-of-the-way corners and vibrant enough of a tradition that bands like The Sword and Avenged Sevenfold have glommed onto metal's folkways in an effort to become the next big thing. The impulses are not dead-they have just been twisted and contorted into shapes that serve trends fashioned to make metal into something meaningless for a marketplace devoid of any allegiances beyond the almighty dollar. However, despite the convergence of factors which precipitated heavy metal's implosion in the past, a collapse is not "inevitable"-these are events shaped by human hands and orchestrated by the metal and mainstream media. Maybe it is a fool's errand to walk in front of the metal and mainstream industry train carrying loads of cash and consumers to market in an attempt stop it, but now is the time for people who care about heavy metal and have any integrity or decency left in their veins to rip up the tracks and make the "underground" act like an underground and demand an independent metal media free from conniving industry machinations. In other words, it is high-time for people to make a stand for a metal that is honest, authentic and true-since others are already doing so in a false fashion with no other goals in sight beyond padding their pockets and increasing their self-important status."
~Dave Burns, June 2006

I want to hug the guy. But there's a "but", a big "but"... Some of these bands he is calling out I genuinely like. A lot. And they're bands that I will gladly take up arms for and wage a fierce and throbbing battle on the field of authenticity. The Sword is one of his flagship bands that he continually refers to as he builds his case against the aspiring commercial rock conglomerate. Knowing the band personally (+15 scene points) I will state that from my perspective they're 4 dudes who played their cards wisely and found a label, booking agent, and publicity agent that have enabled them to comfortably do what they really want: Get high everyday and play some seriously groovin' stoner jams. While it seems they may have dollar signs in their eyes, those dollar signs are actually thousands of little pot leafs that just happened to settle into a shape that kind of resembles a dollar sign, but also resembles a Laney full stack if viewed from the right angle.

However, Mr. Burns (heh) does indeed have a good point, and it's one I can't ignore. The ferocity of which The Sword and bands of their ilk have stormed into the underground is alarming, and clearly has the same kind of marketing blitz behind it that one sees from major labels. Remember when punk got huge? I mean HUGE? It's not as bad now as it was 7 or 8 years ago, but as a fan I remember feeling very offended that my little scene was turning into a huge, gross, candy coated fake version of itself. It's like the kennel scene in The Thing when beard dude watches his beloved dogs morph into a giant space monster that shoots green slime from severed veins. It's your little pet that you discovered and hold dear, and suddenly it becomes this crazy ugly version of your pet that is giant and kind of stumbling around with no clear focus other than engulfing your colleagues. The results of the 90's punk explosion are still bobbing on the bloody brine, washed up carcasses chewed by sea life and rotting on the beach, left overs we can still smell. No Doubt, The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Gold Finger, Blink 182, Rancid, Green Day, bands that in their youth had varying shreds of authenticity (Okay, not Gold Finger) but at some point were assimilated by the radio friendly corporate rock cyborgs (yeah, I imagine them like the Borgs in Star Trek the Next Generation) and began churning out forgettable radio rock that was occasionally heard on your Mom's favorite station.

It throws me back to when I was 17, and being a 17 year old male was flipping through my sister's Delia's catalogue looking at the model babes dressed in the latest fashions being pushed onto young girls with expendable (parental) income. I turned the page and to my absolute revolt saw a studded "punk" bracelet in their accessories section, right next to the plastic pink earrings and ankle-wear. I nearly tore the Misfits shirt from my back. I can't look at those catalogues now because it's creepy, and while I'm still at the nubile age of 25, 17 year olds are more "babies" than they are "babes".

Dave Burns and I see the same thing starting to happen to metal. Again. The most flagrant violators are the "guy-liner" bands. Avenged Seven Fold, Atreyu, Himsa, etc... I know make up has it's place in metal, who can forget the first time they saw Dee Snyder with his enormous, lipsticked-to-all-hell mouth agape, between two rosy circles painted on his alabaster face? A true horror to even the most unshakeable warriors. But the difference between the afore mentioned bands and Motley Crue in a hot tub filled with champagne is staggering. It's like the new bands are trying to play it off that somehow they're cool for wearing eye liner and black nail polish, that they're tapped into some elite fashion vein and are leaking their secrets out into the pages of AP and Revolver. I don't know where this started, but there needs to be a huge collective slap in the face. YOU LOOK STUPID. STOP IT NOW. I AM BLUSHING FOR YOU. YOU WILL NOT BE PROUD OF THIS IN 10 YEARS.

Looks are one thing though. If the bands were actually good it wouldn't matter whether they went with Chanel or Loreal. The new wave of heavy bands is largely an uninspired throw back to good music that was played with soul and fire, and is now fizzling. The sounds you hear aped the most are Neurosis, At the Gates, Melvins, and of course the Sabbath/Kyuss/Sleep style blues riff rock. It's getting about as entertaining as a 1-2 drum beat in 1997. And if the tradition holds, it's right about when it starts to get really old in the underground that it explodes into the mainstream and the original fans are forced to shield their eyes from the nuclear blast that was their once beloved independent scene. Remember metal core in the late 90's? Did you ever see Botch live? That shit was it's own little grenade that we got to throw every other weekend, and now look at the bulk of the programming on MTV2. It's all cyclical, and it snowballs from basements and 75 capacity clubs into shopping malls and Ozz-Fest.

I do want to make it clear that this is not an attack on the bands, and more a rage against the hype machine that pushes and markets the bands. For the most part I am a fan of heavy rock and will champion bands like Lords, Big Business, Torche, Saviours, Mastodon, High on Fire and so on. These people are artists and should be treated as such. There's nothing wrong with being a successful musician, it's absolutely what I want, what any musician wants. These bands all deserve success, and in my opinion can make it to whatever plateau they're aiming for strictly on the merit of their ability to kick out the jams. It doesn't need to be inflated with hot air. In the end, I agree and disagree with Dave Burns. You can't completely reject a hyped up heavy band. Half the reason they're getting the hype in the first place is because they're good. But, he is completely and utterly on point with spotting the trend in the aggressive marketing of this music that I love, and a lot of the bands buying into it are utterly false. My anger and skepticism of "new heavy" is fueled by fear, a fear that something I hold very close will be torn from my arms, given a boob job, and then dropped into some jock's car stereo. When that happens, when you see computer programmers walking out of baseball games in Isis shirts, all of a sudden it isn't very special anymore. I can only hope that the bands maintain their integrity and use their success as a tool to keep making good music, and that we aren't left with a "Date Stephen O' Malley" reality TV show.

Anyways, read Dave's article. It's much more illuminating than you'd think, and while it's depressing to see that kind of mainstream marketing in the "independent" scene I feel equipped to deal with it knowing it's there.

Next gen videogames = Cookie jar on top of the fridge

2006-06-13T15:02:00.000-07:00

My enthusiasm for videogames outside of work is like the ebb and flow of a tropical beach. At times it is a raging monsoon, crashing over into all aspects of my free time so that I can't even sleep without seeing some kind of zombie or Tetris piece hovering beneath my eye lids. Sometimes it is just a decorative background as I sit on my cabana (my couch), sipping a mai-tai (Pabst) and watching babes in bikinis (my cat, Max) strut (chasing bugs) along the surf (window sill). But should I choose to hang back and read in the sun, or bust out the boogie board and surf until dusk, it is always there, just skimming the coast of the vacation resort that is my life.

Right now these waters are stirring. It’s not quite the storm it has been in the past, but lets just say the ol' knee is acting up again. You can smell the storm on the wind. I have a fresh can of sex wax and am greasing up the Wave Bird. A new pair of jams with the tags still on lie in anticipation on the beach patio, and I've prepared a sickeningly smooth Boston mix CD. The proverbial “Surf" is indeed, "Up”.

The next generation of consoles is on the way. Xbox 360 is already out, and the new Nintendo (Wii) and PlayStation (PS3) consoles have been announced and are looming like diamond plated gargoyles atop a golden castle made out of my own spent dollars (it’s pretty big). Currently I'm a bit out of the loop on exact details for each console, as well as specifics on which games are the star attraction for each individual dork magnet. I've remedied my ignorance with a check made out for $25. I know that sounds like an impossible galactic feat, and I bet you wish you could do the same. It's easy. Write said check, and mail it to Game Informer, and you will be privy to the new shit once a month for the next two years. For now I am still a relative ignoramus on the "next gen”, but allowing 6-8 weeks for delivery, I will soon be a goddamn pool of wisdom. Here's what I do know, which is pretty much an amalgamation of the gossip I picked up on that came back from E3...

Nintendo Wii:
Let us all cheer in triumph, for Nintendo has leapt from their crystalline pedestal and set up shop down here in the real world. Once the undisputed champion of console games (SNES days), they were savagely toppled in the early-mid 90's when the PlayStation took off and instead of following the new wave of cheaper, more accessible games on discs, decided to stick with cartridges on the Nintendo 64. Games were roughly around $60-$70 each, and while it had a few gems and classics, for the most part the game library was a weak stream of drool dribbling from a sleeping giant's mouth. A stream of giant drool that I, nor my parents, could afford. I was overjoyed in the late 90's when the GameCube was unleashed, and I leapt back into Nintendo's loving arms like a sleepy 5 year old after a night over at Gramma’s. Shit was like Jerry McGuire. You had me at hello. The design was perfect, the games were great, the controller fit my hand like a mitten filled with pudding, and best of all it was cheaper at release than all the other systems. Since then I have meticulously focused my gaming primarily on Nintendo, and while it hasn't shared the mass gaming appeal as Sony's armor clad stallion, or Microsoft's X-Treme hardware powerhouse, it has done nothing but relentlessly satisfy me. Alone. In my living room. Not only because it is a goddamn saint of a system, but it also signaled Nintendo's collective head being removed from it's giant corporate ass so that they may spew and spout quality gaming once again upon the Mario hungry masses.

As the next wave of systems gets closer, I have completely put my faith in the Wii, for a few reasons. First and foremost, it seems as if Nintendo has stuck with beating their competitors on the price tag, a hand-out to the working man like myself. A brand new Wii at around $200 will cost about half the amount of an XBox 360, and one third (one fucking third!) of the PlayStation 3. The dirt that Nintendo rubs in these corporate faces is a list of launch titles that is over 40 games long. We get our reasonably priced cake, and get to eat it on the fucking spot.

The other kicker about the Wii, is the completely overhauled controller. It's a wireless, motion sensitive stick with a few buttons on it. That means you're gonna swing it when you want to hit a baseball, you're gonna aim it when you want to shoot an arrow, you're gonna lift it when you wanna block a punch, and I suppose you're gonna accidentally break it on your coffee table when you're grappling with a tentacled alien. At first I was adverse to this idea. Over the years I have grown fond of the motionless droning that is accompanied with gaming. The sitting on the couch and rotting away, the dry eyes that practically peel when you blink, the aches in the knee when you shift for the first time in an hour. It's a comforting ritual that I have nurtured into a relaxing meditation, and I was initially put off at the notion that my humble "me time” was going to involve jumping around my living room like a pixie in the snow.

However, reports from E3 say nothing but incredible things about the handling, likening setting down the wand and walking away to being an infant torn from the teat mid-suckle. Aside from that, it will function just like a normal controller as well, and will even have attachments (for a little extra $krill of course) to give it button functionality similar to what we're used to in the current state of console gaming. See? Old man Nintendo isn't as senile as we thought. It completely changes the current method of controlling for those who want a fresh breeze (me!), but makes the tried and true an available option for those that want it (me too!). I'm not up to par on the launch titles, but I have seen video of people playing the new Zelda game, swinging the wand like a sword as Link engages his enemies. Talk about geek dreams come true. I just want to know where the blowjob hole is, because that's the only thing it's missing. Well, it is missing Resident Evil 5, but I have a feeling Capcom will come around. They originally announced the Resident Evil series as exclusive to Nintendo, but you can get part 4 on PS2 now, and any exclusivity pretty much went out the window when it got pimped to Hollywood as the latest excuse to see Milla Jovovich naked. I died a little when I saw Nemesis tromping around like some kind of Stay Puff Marshmallow Zombie, but that's a different post for a different day.

And OK, the name of the system is pretty lame. "Wii". As in "Wii I'm having fun!" Or "Can you pull over, I need to Wii on that guy's lawn.” Or "Darby O' Gill had many Wii friends." A catastrophic marketing decision at best. But hey, I'm talking about it...

I have forgiven them on the name, and it's purely because I'm so excited for what it entails. If someone were to serve me a medium rare rib eye smothered in A-1 on a naked Japanese girl, and tell me it's called "Turd-pentine”, the inadequate title of such a dish would be immediately forgiven at first bite, nay, as soon as the salivating began. A name is just a name, and it isn't going to make actually throwing fireballs in the next Mario game any less awesome. Troof!

PlayStation 3:
I like to think of the original PlayStation as being very similar to the queen bitch in John Cameron's Aliens. It kind of just arrived on the scene, and was met with shock and surprise when we saw the first few games. Twisted Metal and Toshinden Battle Arena just kind of lurked out of the ceiling and devoured our space marine faces, caught the attention of the public (which would be Burke, played by Paul Reiser) and pretty much lured us in to the den of a gigantic beast dropping gooey eggs into our living rooms from a seemingly endlessly throbbing thorax. Or is it abdomen... Whatever. But all of a sudden it wasn't just Nintendo anymore being followed around by his annoying little brother, Sega. PlayStation pretty much killed Nintendo as far as consoles go, the only thing that kept the grandfather of games intact was the namesake of the various franchises, and an iron gauntlet grip on the handheld gaming market. I for one supported it at the time. I didn't like the duplo lego feel of the N64 controller, and the price tag on the games seemed inconceivably expensive. The PlayStation looked just as good, had a much more intuitive and comfortable (although slightly intimidating) controller, and had a shit load more games at a better price. It was a giant, game producing monster that took over with the systematic efficiency of an insect colony.

Sony's big trump card was the release of the PS2, where they beat Microsoft and Nintendo to the punch by releasing their next system months ahead of their competitors, a move that Sega attempted as well and ultimately was crushed under Sony's massive thumb. They also managed to secure all the franchises and 3rd party titles that we were all craving. It was an obvious choice to own a PS2. Still is. The machine still holds up as a fantastic, affordable console. I have one, almost never play it because it would be sin to ignore the cute lil' GameCube, but I would still rather let acid spitting ants devour my body from the feet up than let it go.

So the PlayStation name has a certain reliability to it. There will be lots of games. Lots of good games. We will get our Metal Gears, our Resident Evils, our God of War, our Medal of Honor. The graphics look awesome, the games are shaping up nicely. Not a huge list of launch titles, but that's not unusual. I was all about the PlayStation 3, until I heard how much it was going to cost. $600. And it's not a joke. Or maybe it is a joke, on us. Maybe the top floor of the Sony building in Japan is like some kind of fucked up room in Willy Wonka's factory where Japanese game publishers are taking our money and using giant Dr. Seuss machines to turn it into candy versions of us toiling away at our jobs, and then eating us, and then drinking sake' and laughing at the candy versions of us, and then politely throwing us up into their napkins because they've eaten so much money they're sick. This is probably definitely true. It's the only logical explanation for asking that much money. The worst part is that they've been called out numerous times by the press at the outrageous price, and every official statement has been something along the lines of:

"It doesn't matter how much we're asking. You will want to buy this machine. You will want it so bad you will probably break it trying to figure out how to have sex with it."

I think I speak for a lot of people when I say that a price tag that high, combined with the rampant arrogance of Sony's top execs (borderline insanity, actually) puts the PS3 into the category of Ferraris, first class plane tickets, 1000 channel cable packages, and whipped cream cheese. It's an unnecessary luxury that is too expensive in the face of other shit that will work just fine. I officially don't give a fuck about the PS3. No wait, I do. I want it to fail. Hard. I want that thing to fall flat on it's $600 nose and be trampled under the crowd of people in line to buy Nintendo shit. I want Sony to go down as a martyr, spreading the message that this elite pricing is a recipe for disaster. I want Sony to realize the only way to save their position amongst the console war is by dropping the price to undersell Nintendo. I want those Japanese execs in the Sony building to start digging through their own shit to find the scraps of our money that they turned into candy. Yes. I want them to eat their own shit.

XBox 360:
Fuck Microsoft.

6/6/06 - most boring apocalypse ever.

2006-06-06T12:00:00.000-07:00

12 hours and counting... no nuclear attack, no zombie apocalypse, no plague, no locusts, no gaping pits in the earth sending us to a fiery death, so far the verdict on the day of reckoning as of lunch time is "lame".

it's the devil's day, and what i'd really like to be doing is waiting on top of the space needle with an 18 pack, a lawn chair, a handful of corndogs with virgin's blood dippin' sauce, and a boom box with "angel of death" playing on repeat so i have a front row seat to cheer on satan's army clawing their way through the earth (no doubt hitting the seattle underground tour first) and slaying the sinning masses as jesus descends from the heavens to save the righteous.

but no... i'm at work, just like everyone else. and we all know that nothing is gonna happen today. the most evil thing i could think of is i find out i'm scheduled at my night job and have to pull a double instead of going to my friend's evil birthday party in olympia, where (no joke) admission is charged with a bible to throw onto a bon fire and entertainment will be provided by a vampire black metal comedian.

but how lame is that? i am lucky enough to exist on a day that has been biblically predicted to send ignorant sinners like myself to our pennance in the bowels of hellfire. a day that happens once a millenium. i'm supposed to get my holy comeuppance, my ultimate divine spanking. all i'm getting is a sweet caffeine buzz from the pot of coffee i've been nursing all morning, same as every other day.

after scouring online news for anything to enhance my evil awareness for the day, all i could find was a disappointing mess of halloween style marketing ploys aimed at making money off of devil hype. i guess that's kind of evil, but not what i was really looking for. they do the same shit on valentines day. valentines day is named after a saint. saints are not evil, by definition. it's science. BBC news has an article about violent deaths in Baghdad topping 6,000 for this year, also evil, but it's nothing unexpected considering the state of affairs over there. why can't it be "6,000 violent deaths due to unholy sacrifice at the altar of pagan gods"?

one of today's greatest 'sins' might possibly be the remake of the omen hitting theatres. regardless of your opinion on the blitz-krieg suicide bomber style assault of hollywood remaking old movies, and whether or not it is necessary, i think we can all agree that the omen is hardly a likely candidate for the california boob job other than simply making money off the movie on 6/6/06. the original is about as flawless as a horror movie gets, has a creepy little kid that doesn't spoil it by being a little kid (see: Ring 2), solid acting throughout, and contains no real scene or effects that could be considered in need of a CGI make over. way to ruin another one of my favorite movies. hopefully people will realize that the only way to stop this shit from happening is to stop paying for it when it comes out.

and where are all the fanatics? how come there aren't any nuts sealing themselves up in churches, locking their virgin daughters up in their bedrooms, taking the day off to pray and wait for jesus on the beach? i heard about the one lady who wanted to delay her pregnancy because she's due to give birth today, but in all likelihood IF the "anti christ" was born today it would probably happen in some small mexican village instead of suburban white america. a comforting thought is "what if ALL the babies born today were the anti christ?" how would we pick which one to follow? do you think they'd start a club? would there be scuffles and debates over which anti christ was the real anti christ? i wonder what qualifications would be examined to determine who was more "anti" than the other anti christs. i'm guessing the ones born into republican families would have an advantage over the others.

i guess the answer to my throbbing "why does nobody care?" question is simple. nobody cares because... nobody cares. we all know it's a bunch of hooey. religious crazies take note: this is the same kind of hype you're gonna get when jesus comes back. someone will do a remake of the ten commandments starring jared leto as moses, creed will do a reunion tour with scott stapp and sell thong panties with halos on the crotch for $35 each, america will go on killing people in iraq, and stupid assholes will still end up paying $600 for a playstation 3.

so now lunch is over, and i return to my normal job, listening to my normal ipod (slayer, iron maiden, saviours, at the gates) in desperate hope either that something truly evil happens at some point, or else someone does something crazy trying to prepair for damnation.

************

2:18 pm - maria just notified me that this has been announced. the world may not be ending, but i am definitely going to kill myself.

I play videogames for a living part 1

2006-06-02T10:22:00.000-07:00

this conversation happens at least once a week...

random: so what do you do?
me: i test video games.
random: hahaha! really?
me: yes. really.

[pause]

and then the random will flip out in some marginally embarrasing manner, exclaiming to the heavens about how lucky i am, about how inexplicable it is that my job even exists, that there is even need for such labor, about how fortunate it is to find a job in which one's sole responsibility lies entirely in leisure. i can only imagine the visions that race through their head... me sitting in a room decked out with bean bag chairs, kit-kat wrappers and empty big gulp cups, furiously mashing buttons and staring intently at the latest 'the shit' in video entertainment, my co-workers lounging in hammocks around me cheering me on as they peek over their sweaty gameboys smudged up with corndog grease. or perhaps they envision me in a post-modern euro style office that would make even the wealthiest of ikea shoppers salivate, a sony flatscreen on the wall and a single controller wire extending across the smoke grey diamond plate paneling to my cardboard thin desk, me on the phone urgently speaking to dr. mario himself. "sir! we have a problem. it's serious. fox mccloud's blaster is not up to spec... i already called skippy!!!! he told me this was your department!!! DAMMIT!"

and then the conversation inevitably goes here: "it's actually not as cool as it sounds." yes, i am paid to play videogames, full time. i know it sounds like a dream. it is a dream. it's a dream i have had since i bought my first NES in 1988. a dream i followed as an embittered teen constantly on the cusp of "cool" and "that kid is a dork", balancing my magic cards with flannel shirts and a pony tail [see "GRUNGE" era '90-'93], fantasy novels set in the Dragonlance realm nullified with spiky hair, self drawn minor threat shirts, and home-made studded bracelets, and an unnatural obsession with horror movies covertly hidden by hanging out with people that smoke. so of course, after i escaped the social pressure chamber of high-school, it was time to let the frothy faced nerd back out of his little cage in my heart. in community college i had a friend with similar asperations, and one day we met in the atrium just outside the arcade after i had probably spent a good $3 on either metal slug 3 or house of the dead, and he giddily tells me "i got a job at nintendo testing videogames." my heart leapt like a nubile fawn. the legend was true. there was gold in them hills. it was all over. i set my phazer to "zelda" and fired.

but really. like any job it can be severly taxing on one's patience. some of the most excrutiatingly and horrifically boring moments of my life have been spent planted in a second hand office chair within a cold, fluorescent room, dedicating hours to tasks like manipulating an animated hamster across a beach volley ball court in order to find a zebra suit that DOES NOT FUCKING EXIST.

one of the brutal lessons of game testing one learns in a rapid and often heart-breaking way, is that temporary contract positions as a tester are abundant and permanent positions are almost non-existant. as a contractor, you are 100% expendable, a goombah, a pawn that must bend over backwards and perform flawlessly lest ye be banished from the mushroom kingdom and replaced instantly with a phone call by the next shivering, near-sighted, pudgy, soft-palmed drone in line to take up your righteous controller. my experiences with the variations of how contractors are treated vary from company to company, but it is rare that we are given any regard beyond being a desperate nerd fulfilling his uber geek fantasy of working for a game company, and the exploitation of labor is savage and ruthless. my first contract at nintendo had me testing three games, one after the other. each game, commonly referred to as your "project", went into overtime and had me working long hours and weekends, all the while my productivity under the microscope for any signs of weakness. at it's worst, i was working on a game 7 days a week, 15 hours each day. but hey, it's not all bad... i was making money playing videogames.

one of the best parts of being a game tester is working with other testers. these people are some of the most potent nerds you will ever meet, vomiting trivia at the mere mention of "star wars" and squaking together like a herd of angry ducks wearing glasses... and for the most part i find it absolutely endearing. it's kind of like they're in their favorite chatroom or message board, only it's real, and any shame for their lifestyle (come on, it's a goddamn culture) has been left in the hands of the 4 foot mario statue guarding the door to the testing department. i've been involved in software/videogame testing for 6 years now, and have been fortunate enough to witness some key moments in dork history through the eyes of my co-workers, including but not limited to: the nu star wars movies, the introduction of the xbox to the videogame world, ipods, the seemingly endless barrage of hollywood comic franchise movies, the MMORPG revolution (everquest, world of warcraft, diablo), d&d 3rd edition... it goes on, and while some of these things may seem trivial to you, the norms, these are subjects of endless, ferocious debates in dark places that are punctuated with nasal defiance and lit by the dim glow of a thousand gameboys. and i don't mean to come across like i'm better than them, or am observing the creature in it's natural habitat only to return to my underground lab after collecting data. i am every bit as emotionally invested in crucifying Rare for selling out and moving to xbox, and i will savagely challenge any who say metroid prime was not true to the original format just because it switched from 2D to 3D. there's a certain brotherhood that develops when a mass of grown men (and sometimes women, whom i feel endless sorrow for when they willingly subject themselves to an environment like this), plunge headfirst into the rigors of software slavery, dilligently testing a videogame just for the namesake and working under a shroud of fear at the thought of losing the cross they bear so well. a brotherhood that in no way necessitates clasped arms and trips to jillian's after work for brewskies and pork chops, but is most easily recognized in awkward conversations about metal at the soda machine and the eventual admission that pokemon is a fun game AND the harry potter series is fucking riveting.

over these long years i have noticed varying types of nerds, not all that i am fond of. i've also seen the game industry from different perspectives, as i was lucky enough to hold a permanent management position for a few years when enix had an office in seattle (before their legacy was tarnished by merging with square soft. that's right, i said it.) recently i also started writing down quotes of some of the more ridiculous things i've heard my co-workers say. but all this will have to wait for inspiration and a few free hours, as this will be an ongoing observation of videogames and the people who make them.

w00t!!!!

X Men 3 hurt my soul...

2006-06-01T10:14:00.000-07:00

ok you bastards. i have a bone to pick. i'm sending this out to the assholes. you know who you are. not the spouse beating, homophobic, racist, murdering, thieving, assholes... the REAL douche bags. yeah, that's right. YOU. you nu-star wars, x-men 3 loving PRICKS that ignore the simple reality that those movies suck so damn hard and sing their praise as if george lucas just double teamed the christ with brett ratner and shot their million dollar load into your face so that all you can see is the "money rapture" where shitty directors descend to earth and all our money is "saved" and taken to director heaven.

i will admit to being conned into the theatre, and paying full admission price hoping to glimpse a CGI visualization of my adolescent action fantasies. it's what i always wanted to see as a pimply, D&D obsessed (fucking obsessed), comic reading, sci-fi worshipping, gore loving, fantasy novel reading 12 year old. but at least i have the grapes to acknowledge that i got robbed. ROBBED of my teenage dreams. that damn Xmen 3 preview was so incredible... i admit to you shamelessly and with the same tinge of arrogant pride that i am able to recite a thief's base level 1 ability percentages from memory, that i was trembling like a goddamn flower at the site of angel, beast AND juggernaut doing their mutant thing in full, schlocky, hollywood action CGI glory.

alas... the film failed at all levels. turns out angel has two scenes and is a feathered metaphor for the gay son vs. homophobic dad struggle (not a bad thing, just laid on a bit thick when he has giant white angel wings). juggernaut's only purpose is to sucker comic fans into the theatre, gets kicked in the nards, and is responsible for the most embarrasingly bad line in recent film history (my face got hot). beast, sadly, is just kelsey grammar painted blue. individual character let downs aside, the plot had zero continuity with itself, the previous two movies, and the comic series, which is a most grevious fault seeing that the comics are brilliantly written and there is a veritable WEALTH of plot points one could extrapolate into any number of bombastic hollywood action movies. the lemon in my eye was the new mutants they invented to fill random character spots. i shoot porcupine quills out of my face! i can run fast, AND i can sense what other mutant powers are so the writers don't have to think too hard when trying to figure out how to have magneto know what he's doing through half the movie. i throw goat horns that grow out of my arms! i have tribal face tattoos! we live in tents in the woods because we're outcasts!

you people who go to these movies and then say that it's good. three thumbs up? top ten action movies ever? you SAW the movie. you KNOW it's bad. you are the same people who insist nu star wars is good... BECAUSE it's star wars. it doesn't matter that the writing is horrendous, that it's a complete departure from what made the series good in the first place, that it is cast by spit-balling at 8x10 glossies of underwear models. it IS therefore you LIKE. what was the last movie you saw? S.W.A.T.? you people infuriate me. you support this trash, which makes it consistent. i want you to know that YOU are killing my inner child. he is being squandered under the fist of the jock who watches american gladiators, scrambling to hide his dark-sun modules back into his back pack as he snivels his bloodied nose.